Shame
by belladonnacullen
Summary: She destroys him. He hides his disgrace. She manipulates. He dominates. She's driven by power. He's inspired by duty. Their corporate arrangement is motivated by shame. ExB, AH, Rated M.
1. Chapter 1

**This is dedicated to Jo. I told her she deserved rainbows & unicorns & true love, but this was all I had to offer. **

**And to Amy, the other wheel of the trike as well: I'm forever glad the fandom brought us together.**

**~BDC**

* * *

Bella Swan switches off the security monitor on her desk and swivels her chair so that she faces away from the cadre of executives assembled in her office. Floor to ceiling glass reveals the city at her well-heeled feet. Some businesswomen might cross their legs when seated for high level talks, but Bella spreads her legs as wide as her tailored skirt will allow, her feet planted firmly on the floor. She takes her rightful place in this world.

"The board will want answers, Ms. Swan."

"China's market collapsed in on itself. Europe isn't coming back for another twenty years, if at all. What domestic capital is left is being held in reserve so long as those obsolete windbags in Washington pontificate instead of taking action. The answers are easy, Jared. No need to play perplexed."

"I've misspoken. They'll want solutions."

Bella's confidence doesn't waiver. Neither does her voice.

"Those are similarly straightforward. We will adapt if we want to survive. The world has changed and business must change with it. Slimmer, trimmer and meaner, we will thrive with lethal grace. Simply stated, we'll cut all excess and focus our remaining, vital resources. We can no longer afford to dance around the goal. Each and every one of us is here for one reason: to turn a profit. We are here to win. We are here for the kill. Only those ready for blood will remain."

"Lay-offs, then?" Paul asks.

Bella sighs in frustration, but reminds herself that the shortsighted also serve their purpose in this life. They remember the little things, like how you must pick up the blade before taking a life.

"Yes, lay-offs… at the very minimum. We will eliminate five thousand units in conjunction with top to bottom corporate restructuring. We'll scour the budget. We'll close Hong Kong. Nothing's happened in that hole since the British retreat. And we'll finally grow a pair and go after Volturi."

There is an audible gasp from the executives Bella has summoned for the meeting. She cannot keep the grin from her face.

"Are you serious?" Paul asks in a near whisper, glancing about the office like he might catch sight of the rival firm hiding behind the planter. "_The_ Volturi? With _these_ earnings?"

"Survival of the fittest, Paul. In this brave new world there isn't room for two of us at the top."

"That's what you're bringing to the board? Aldous Huxley meets Darwin?" Embry challenges. Bella hears his glass of scotch plunk down on her desktop and flinches. She has a rule about glasses on her mahogany. If Embry doesn't watch his actions he'll find himself among the unlucky five million former employees SAF Global.

Bella takes a deep, steadying breath. She concentrates on the air filling her chest and the feel of lace, silk and vicuna wool as it presses against her skin. She takes her time and slowly swivels in her chair to face her inquisitors. She looks from one to the next. They are uniformly tall, well dressed, brilliant and empty, she thinks to herself. She imagines they wait for her to fill their heads with purpose and drive – for her to animate their limbs, as if she were an overpaid puppeteer. They appear anxious, no doubt wondering which of their strings she is poised to sever.

"Will your proposal be enough?" Embry prods. Bella focuses all of her attention on the man. He takes an unsteady step backward.

"Enough for what?" Bella asks, daring the insubordinate executive to suggest the board will interfere with her plans. She is certain that she is the board's greatest asset during this crisis and she doesn't fancy the board members are fools. She believes that her position is the only thing certain to remain intact in this new fiscal environment. She is likewise certain that Embry can no longer maintain such security.

All of the executives appear mute, unwilling to answer Bella's challenge. A clock ticks. The men shift their weight. Bella's eyes dart deskward and her fingers itch to switch the security monitor back to life. Her body tingles with involuntary desire, which she controls by pressing her thighs together as she purposefully rises from her chair.

"The names of those positions eliminated have been uploaded to your drive, Jared. Work with Samuelson in HR. You have ten days. And this one…" Bella does her best to appear nonchalant as she slides an envelope across her desk. "This one must go before the close of business today. He leaves the premises promptly at six pm. Let him work out his last minutes with us before you give him the news."

"You want _me_ to do this, ma'am? _Myself_? Shouldn't Samuelson or -"

"Absolutely, Jared. Now Paul, Hong Kong's going to need help with its own demise. Embry, Quill, to London and Tokyo. We'll meet again at seven tomorrow before we quite literally divide and conquer."

The men nod their heads, accepting their allotted duties and file out of the office. The door clicks shut. Before Bella has time to take another breath she switches the security monitor back on.

She takes a satisfied seat._ He_ is on the screen.

He works in chambray shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. He worries his hair, (he always does). She is used to seeing it sit in a haphazard mop on top of his head. He sits with a wide stance just as she likes to do, and Bella spreads her legs until she feels woolen resistance against her thighs.

Despite his bearing, this man does not take control in his workplace like Bella does. Lately he has been distracted and his work has suffered as a result. His dutiful staff fills in and keeps him afloat, but a large network floats amorphous, leaving the company vulnerable. He is no longer up to the job at hand.

As if to confirm Bella's misgivings, she watches as the man's concentration falters. He runs his hands reflexively through his hair and grits his teeth. His focus drifts upward until he is staring head on into the lens of the security camera. Bella's body snaps to attention as if the flickering image of the man's eyes has the ability to strip her bare and scald her skin. Slowly, she stretches her limbs and licks her lips.

All too soon the man turns back to his work. Bella hovers over the monitor pleased with her decisions. She has chosen her prey – both large and small. She will bring down Volturi and bring herself worldwide fame and near absolute power. Meanwhile, she will let this man see the strings she holds over him and then she will tell him exactly what he should do with them.

This idea is distracting, to say the least. Bella switches off the monitor. She is determined not to dwell on the hold the man's unknowing glance commands over her, or the manner in which her body responds. She will simply do what she knows how to do best. She will master and control. The world will fall away and the man will dangle over the abyss. She will save him if he will make her suffer.

xXxXx

**A/N: Thanks to SereneInNC for beta'ing, Obsmama for pre-reading, Fiction Freak95 for making an awesome banner, and to my family for somehow finding the time to let me write. **

**No more than 1 chapter weekly, and hopefully no less.**

**Somehow this feels both darker and lighter than anything I've written lately. We'll see...**

**Thank you for reading. Your reviews are cherished. Your support means the world. **

**xxx ~BDC**


	2. Chapter 2

Edward Cullen pulls the car to the side of the highway. He presses his forehead against the steering wheel and balls his hands into fists. His chest feels like it will explode at the same time that he feels like he'll be sick to his stomach.

"_Edward, calm down_," his sister Alice begs through his Bluetooth earpiece.

He is not calm.

"_Take a deep breath, okay_?"

He feels physically incapable of breathing deeply.

"Just promise me you won't tell Angela," he begs.

"_We just have to think about this rationally. It can't be as…_"

"God, Alice, just stop it!"

Edward's worst fear has just come true. He does not have time for rational thought. He's supposed to ride in on his blue Volvo-steed and save the day. You see, Edward fixes things: complex computer networks at his former job, his parent's aging house, his other sister Rosalie's ballooning mortgage… not to mention his wife.

Actually, when it comes to Angela he does more than fix; he saves. He saved her thesis paper from digital oblivion the first time they met. With the help of a ring, he saved her from moving away after college to take a less than desireable job. He saved her business from bankruptcy the year before she was diagnosed with breast cancer. He thought he'd helped save her life with his health insurance policy. These days he simply saves her from worry.

He saves her from the troubling knowledge that he's ironically sunk his life savings into saving. Mortgages and loan repayments and insurance co-pays and deductibles and experimental treatments carry inevitable costs. Edward managed to put his entire extended family at ease, yet in the process, pull the rug out from underneath himself.

Lately, after Edward settles his wife into bed and settles himself in front of the computer monitor, he balances his finances like a game of Jenga. He writes appeals to insurance companies. He writes to pharmaceutical companies looking for charitable gifts. Afterwards, he goes to the guest bedroom (as the old master suite has been converted to a sick room), swallows a sedative and stares at the ceiling. He feels his saving grace is that Angela will die before she knows what has become of it all.

In his car on the side of the road Edward sobs - a deep, ugly sound that startles him.

He cannot fathom facing his wife and telling her that the last string he had been hanging from has snapped. He has no income and no savings, and very shortly they'll have no health insurance coverage.

"_Rosalie owes you -_" Alice insists from the other end of the line.

"What the hell is Rosalie going to do?"

"_I could maybe -_"

"Alice, stop it."

Edward does not appreciate when others try their hand at fixing.

"_Well, what are you going to do, then?_"

Edward stares at the open highway stretching out in front of him. He has the impulse to drive away toward the horizon, avoiding the exit that would lead toward his home. He would pick up in another city, find a new job and a healthy wife and pretend this all had never happened. But even as he daydreams, he knows he cannot leave. He must face his mess. He must find a way to fix it.

"I'll figure something out, Alice. I always do. Please don't breathe a word of this to anyone, okay?"

"_It's going to kill me keeping this from mom and dad_."

"It'll all be over before you have to worry."

"_Well, okay, I guess. Take care, Edward. Say hi to Angela for me._"

"I'll do that. Night, Alice."

"_Night, Edward. Love you._"

"Love you too, sis."

Edward wipes his eyes, puts his car into drive and grips the wheel. He leaves the highway at the appropriate exit. He follows traffic rules. He holds it together once more.

After the home nurse is relieved, Edward enters his old bedroom. Angela's eyes are closed. Her flat chest rises and falls unevenly. Her skin is dry and pale. Her eyelids flutter as he takes a seat in the chair next to the bed.

"You're home." Her smile is thin. Her eyes are brown and clouded, like the sky over Los Angeles on a winter evening.

He bends and kisses his wife's cheek and his fingers grasp the cotton cap on her head. "I'm home," he agrees, but his body feels anything but comfortable.

"Good day?" his wife asks.

"A day. Let's leave it at that." He kisses her forehead for good measure. "How about you?"

"Hannah got the pain meds right."

"Did you eat?"

"Enough."

Angela closes her eyes and turns her head so that she is facing away from her husband. Edward realizes seconds after he's done it that he's used words that would inevitably end the conversation. Angela hardly eats these days. It's a sticking point between the two of them – one of the few.

"You should try to eat more," he insists.

"I'm tired, honey."

"Maybe when you wake?"

"That sounds good."

With another kiss to his wife's cheek, he's in the clear until he must wake Angela for her eight o'clock meds. He opens the refrigerator but realizes he isn't hungry either. Instead of food, he grabs a beer and heads out the back door. He stands at the edge of the yard they've never used. He walks over to the wire fence enclosing the vegetable garden they've never planted. He kicks at a fence post, but it doesn't budge. He kicks again, and again, and then uses hands and heft to tug and tear and pull it all up and out of the ground. Beer spills, wire cuts at his palms and tears his jacket, dirt clouds fill the air around him. Edward chokes and stumbles backwards, tossing the mess onto the ground and surveying the only outward evidence of his shame. The ruined, misshapen mess is disgusting, like the beer-soaked, dirty clothing he's suddenly wearing.

He pulls off his jacket and shirt, unbuckles and pulls his belt free from its loops. Stopping in the mudroom, he kicks off his shoes, tosses his dirty clothing in the washing machine, steps out of his pants, and pulls his t-shirt over his head.

Edward runs the shower water as hot as he can bear. He closes his eyes and wraps a hand around himself, but it's not Angela that he pictures in his mind's eye. Angela isn't the woman he mentally undresses, pins to a tabletop and pounds until she writhes and shouts. This woman is alive and whole. She is strong and limber. She shouts and pulls at his hair and bites at his shoulder as he cums inside her.

When Edward opens his eyes, he sees that he isn't pounding a woman with his cock, but bathroom tiles with his free fist. He presses his forehead against the wall and gasps as hot water pelts his back. His chest heaves and something within it feels as if it crumbles. He wonders what will grow to fill the empty space his life's purpose has left behind.

* * *

**A/N: If I were a good fanfic author I wouldn't leave things there, but I'm a very bad fanfic author. **

**Much undying love to my beta, SereneInNC and my nutbunny & pre-reader, Obsmama. Without them I might not have had the courage to post any of this. So, yeah, totally, blame them. I kid. Kinda.**

**As we go forward: 1) This is totally a work of fiction. I've never destroyed former employees. 2) I make no apologies for either B or E. I'm just going to see where they take it.**

**It looks like this little ditty is going to update on Fridays. **

**Until next time,**

**~BDC**


	3. Chapter 3

Bella Swan is tired as she slips into the booth at the Irish Pub. She feels as if she is singlehandedly steering SAF Global away from an immense iceberg. Board members, executives, administrators, vice presidents, advisors… they all lack the clarity of vision that she possesses in this crisis, when the answer appears as obvious to her as 'bear left'… or aft… or starboard. (She cannot bring herself to make the effort to link the correct nautical phrase to her choice of simile).

"What'll you have?" a server in a stained t-shirt and apron asks as she eyes Bella up and down.

"Maker's Mark, neat, with a back of water."

"Jack Daniel's okay, honey?"

Bella presses her lips together. She could use a drink, but Jack Daniels is not okay and Bella is not one to drink for the sake of alcohol.

"Tonic water, then, with a twist of lime."

The server huffs and offers a weak smile, leaving Bella to her smartphone and her empty booth.

Of course, there are many other bars Bella could have visited that could provide top shelf liquor. There is her own bar at home, for one. If the desire struck, she could have sent Laurent out for cases of Maker's Mark. Instead, she is here waiting: a foreign pastime in a forlorn location. She is not used to waiting. Furthermore, _he_ has left her wondering as well. Bella is not pleased.

Bella had sent word with Jake that she had an offer for Mr. Cullen in light of the fact that he was out of work. Jake would escort Mr. Cullen here to discuss the matter. Jake is reliable and discreet; he does not fail Bella, ever. Yet minutes tick by and Jake and Edward are not present. More alarming still, Bella's cell remains stubbornly silent. She will not make the call. She will not send an inquiring text. She does not need Edward Cullen. He needs her. That fact must be made clear from the beginning.

Bella's thoughts stray back to more reassuring territory, like this afternoon's board meeting. She was the only executive in the room with answers or with any pretense of a plan for moving forward. At this cataclysmic moment in time, all other multinational businesses are doubling back and licking their wounds. Sadly, caution is endemic in banking these days, and it offers a clue to the factors that have brought the globe to the brink of monetary disaster. SAG Global will not follow suit. They will calmly assess their competitors' damage and then go in for the kill. Bella remembers with pleasure how the male board members in attendance this afternoon silently salivated at her predatory plans (as men are liable to do when images of slaughter are put before them). The smattering of women present attempted to appear as bloodthirsty as their male counterparts.

Afterwards, Bella is pleased but tired. Her body calls for downtime pursuits. Whiskey would have been lovely: something smooth and warm as a reward. However, she has an angle on a prize of a different ilk.

The monitor on her desk has been dark for five days, but his eyes have managed to pierce through the haze of her memory. She aims to bring them back to life, she aims to bring them here, she aims to have them settle on her, face to face. These thoughts leave Bella's nerves firing relentlessly and she works to make certain that her breathing is slow and controlled. Her eyes are steady as she glances around at the wood paneled bar and decades old advertisements for Guinness.

She imagines that this is the kind of place _he_ may have wandered into on his own. She imagines he might have come on his own accord and drowned his sorrows at the bar with his best friend or brother-in-law. She also imagines what it might be like if he pinned her up against the dirty brick wall out back in the alley, but just as quickly she banishes that thought from her mind. There are steps that must come first. She must remember those shortsighted schmucks from the office – they focus on the basic one, two, three of a plan, while she always has her eyes set on the prize.

Her prize. She presses her thighs together and sits up straight in anticipation, and as if on cue, albeit twenty minutes late, _he_ walks through the door. Her prize. The tall man glances around, getting his bearings, undoubtedly looking for her. He's dressed as if for work, in a coal gray suit, white oxford shirt and silver tie. All items show subtle wear. The shirt could use bleach, the suit could use a pressing, and the tie could be put to better use.

Bella works to keep from jumping to her feet. She works to keep the smile from her face. She works to keep her hands from twirling her hair, suddenly inspired from within to act like a coy child. Jake's presence as he takes an inconspicuous spot at the counter helps her to stay in check.

After three seconds worth of infinity, Edward spots her in the booth. Bella reads the emotions on his face; he is confused, angry, frustrated and hopeful. All is as planned. But she couldn't have planned how thoroughly his living and breathing body could make her feel. It is irrational. She is playing with fire. A tiger wrestling with a trapped bear.

Edward Cullen strides towards the booth in a show of confidence and Bella rises and smooths her skirt. Edward is more than a head taller than Bella. She knows this detail, of course, but the in-person evidence of this fact leaves her heart thumping near audibly in her chest. She tilts her head and steadily holds his gaze. Inside she is alight.

"Ms. Swan?"

"Mr. Cullen."

The server chooses this moment to return, and places the tonic water on the booth between the two erstwhile executives. "You want a drink?" she asks Edward, flashing a toothy grin.

Edward visibly relaxes as he turns to the server. "No, thank you." His voice is deep and soft, filled with kindness and apology.

The server huffs, but can't help but widen her smile at the penitent patron.

"He'll have a beer," Bella insists.

All eyes return to Bella, which she feels is their rightful focus.

"I don't want -" He begins to argue, anxiety returned.

"You do. He'll have a beer."

"Any beer in particular?" the server asks the tall man, enjoying the show.

Edward Cullen glances between the CEO of the company that he was very recently fired from, to the middle-aged woman with the grease-stained top. "Brooklyn Brown?"

"Comin' at ya'." She winks before leaving.

"It's on me."

The man chuckles bitterly under his breath. "I'd think so."

"Have a seat."

"You mean we're not going to stand all evening?" he asks, sliding into the booth. He is nervous, but he plays smooth well. Bella is pleased as she takes her seat and temples her hands on the over-varnished tabletop. Edward leans back and stretches his legs and his feet reach clear to her side of the booth. She presses her thighs together, her body fitting neatly between his legs, like prey between jaws. It is such a lovely irony, Bella feels compelled to smile.

"You have an offer?" Edward asks, and just like that there is a crack in his smooth façade. His disarming eyes radiate despair. He is being eaten up from the inside out. Bella marshals what she knows about the man as she prepares for the set-up.

"I'm not here to offer you your job back."

"What then?" he asks quietly as if he's holding his breath.

"Frankly, you don't deserve your job back. You lost your position fare and square. Once upon a time you showed signs of brilliance, but you've lost that spark and it's not within my job description to help you find it. I run a multinational financial services firm. There's no room there for charity."

"What are you offering then? Why am I here? I can -"

"You can no longer do anything for me professionally that Mr. Hughes and Mr. Cody cannot."

"I'm the one who trained them."

"Exactly. You've dug your own grave, Mr. Cullen. You should have been more mindful while you were employed."

"I don't think you understand, Ms. Swan. There are… extenuating circumstances."

"Which is why you're here."

"Excuse me?"

"You have an overdrawn savings account and you've drained your 401K early, despite the tax penalty."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm the CEO of the financial institution you bank with, Mr. Cullen. You have a mortgage payment coming due on your home. You have two weeks left on your health insurance before you'll have to pay out of pocket."

Those clear green eyes, those eyes that have pierced right through Bella Swan's gut and wrung her from the inside out, those eyes she was desperate to see in person – they go wide and become damp. She watches red blotches bleed into their whites. She watches Edward Cullen's adam's apple slowly bob in his throat.

The server returns with a pint of beer but leaves quickly, repelled by the tension radiating from the booth.

"What do you know?" Edward asks quietly.

"I've told you what I know. You're a man on the edge. You should have taken care."

"I do take care," he nearly roars as he pounds his fist on the table. The sound of his voice is guttural. Patrons turn to stare and Edward Cullen focuses meekly at the table, embarrassed by his own outburst.

"Not well enough," Bella remarks.

At first Edward keeps his eyes on his beer glass and his fingertips trail in the ring of condensation it's created. "I didn't take enough care? I didn't take care enough?" Edward's head snaps up and he is glaring at Bella. "You know what? Fuck you, Ms. Swan. Fuck. You. You're as ruthless and insane in person as you are from a distance. I should have known better than to subject myself to whatever the fuck this is."

Edward begins to abruptly slide out from the booth but Bella jumps to her feet and lunges across the table, grabbing hold of Edward's wrist. They are both stunned into stillness. Bella is acutely aware of the rise and fall of Edward's chest. Edward is acutely aware of Bella's suddenly exposed cleavage. They are both startled by the warmth and burn of her skin against his. They are both awakened to what could happen in the other's proximity.

A moment passes and Bella lets go. She stands erect. She pushes her hair behind her ears.

"I'm a busy woman, Mr. Cullen," she begins quietly. "You are a man that has only five shares of Apple standing between his old life and one of destitution. There are no tech jobs to be found in this market. There are food pantries and walk-in clinics. And then there is my offer: I want you at my disposal. I want you to play my game. Once weekly."

"Excuse me?"

Bella slides a finger across the table towards Edward. She lets her fingertip trail through his pint glass's puddle where it runs in a circle until it finally arrives at its destination and barely brushes Edward's thumb. Her insides hum to the tune of his breathing. She is pleased. She sees in his eyes that he understands. She has chosen wisely, as always.

"I have a wife."

"I know."

"I love my wife."

"Most men do."

"This is harassment."

"You're no longer under my employ. This is simply a deal between two adults. One with means. One without. One who's willing to meet the other's needs."

"I have a wife," Edward repeats.

Bella takes a deep breath. She slowly raises her head and makes certain to gaze at Edward Cullen head on... to make certain he understands. "I _know_, Mr. Cullen. There are things I could offer her that you never could."

"Fuck you, Ms. Swan. Fuck you."

Edward grabs his leather briefcase, slips out of the booth and strides away without looking back. Jake makes eye contact with Bella from across the bar, silently asking if he should follow. Bella shakes her head. Edward will find a cab. He will take time. He will stew.

He will inevitably relent.

* * *

**A/N: SereneInNC is my beta, Obsmama is my pre-reader & I'm so freakin' grateful to have them both. **

**This isn't my typical subject matter. High finance? Manipulation? Shame? Who knew?**

**Thanks for all of the reviews! Tell your friends to take this story for a whirl... then have an amazing Memorial Day weekend if you live here in the states. (Have a regular old amazing weekend if you live abroad.)**

**XXX ~BDC**


	4. Chapter 4

Edward stares at the leather satchel on his lap for the entirety of the cab ride back to his home. Inside it sits useless trinkets: a thumb drive packed full of IT innovation and new surveillance software, a hastily updated CV, a portfolio of past success and future promise. It means nothing.

The credit card he swipes for payment means close to nothing as well, but it manages to pay for the ride back from the bar. The sight of his home brings with it a sinking feeling in his gut and Edward closes his eyes and grips the door handle before stepping out of the cab and heading back to realities he'd briefly thought he'd escaped.

Edward's s brother in-law, Emmett, meets him in the foyer with a nod and a cell held to his ear.

"He's right here, Rose… Yeah, I'll stop by on the way. No, no, I got it… Be there in twenty… Love you too." Emmett ends the call and tucks his cell into his pocket.

Edward drops his bag and pulls at his tie. "Thanks for coming, Emm."

"IT emergency, huh?"

"Yeah, something like that. How were things here?"

Emmett's already grabbing for his jacket as he answers. "I gave her those pills at eight like you said. She slept, mostly. And she coughed."

"Bad coughing?"

Emmett has his keys in hand. "_She_ said it wasn't bad."

"She always says that."

Emmett waits expectantly and Edward realizes that he's inadvertently blocking his brother-in-law's exit.

"You're heading out then?" he asks.

"I don't know… Rosalie," Emmett sighs. He won't meet Edward's eyes.

"Everything okay?"

"Really good. I don't know. She just needs something from the store." Emmett eyes the front door wistfully.

"Yeah, okay. Gotcha. Thanks again."

Edward steps aside and Emmett claps him on the back as he leaves. Their eyes meet. Edward wishes he was numb to the pity he sees reflected back at him, but he is not. It cuts into his belly like a knife and he finds himself holding a hand over his gut to guard the wound.

It may as well have been another lifetime when Edward and Emmett would get a beer and watch the game, or meet after work to shoot the shit and unwind, or when he'd drop by Rosalie and Emmett's apartment and help fix up Emm's old Mustang.

The fact remains that although that all happened lifetimes ago, Emmett and Rosalie are still young. Edward and Angela are young as well. All four of them should be too young to be forced to face terminal illness head on. They are young enough that Emmett cannot help being consumed by pity whenever he speaks to Edward.

On the job there was no pity, though. And tonight, seated at a bar across from Isabella Swan there had been no pity. And now, as Edward closes the door on his brother in-law, there is no more pity. There in the foyer of his home there is desperation and loneliness.

He could call his littlest sister, Alice, but she would once again pester him to come clean to the rest of the family. She'd threaten to leave school and come help. As much as he'd love a sincere hug and a helping hand, he doesn't want to ruin her life as well. She has finals coming up. He can manage until her semester is over.

Angela begins coughing and Edward heads for the bedroom. His wife is seated on her bed, doubled over as she struggles for breath between the coughs. He rubs her knees – something that's always helped her to relax – even back when it was about anxiety over term papers instead of anxiety over oxygen. He helps find a little blue baggy when the coughing fit brings up vomit. He holds the hair from her face, and when it's all over he helps her recline and straightens the covers.

It's eight thirty-three on a Tuesday evening. Edward is thirty-three years old. He has never felt more helpless and alone.

One-on-one with his wife he is gripped with fear. He holds Angela's thin fingers in his hand, but they offer no support. He wants to grip her fiercely. He wants to cleave to her sunken chest. He is afraid to touch. Instead silent tears trail down his face.

"I doubted us."

Edward hadn't expected Angela's quiet words and raspy voice. Her free hand reaches out and wipes his cheek.

"What?" he asks.

"I didn't know. I thought maybe… don't think bad of me, okay?"

"What bad is there to think?"

Angela hesitates. Leaves scratch against the windowpane, rattled by the wind. "I didn't know about us, Edward. I thought love was supposed to be dramatic, you know? We were always so… convenient. I thought… I don't know, I thought stupid things."

Edward chances a long look at his wife. Her blonde hair is thin and fluffy, like down on a duckling. Her eyes are pale and her cheekbones prominent. Her lips are cracked. He's forgotten to buy Chapstick again.

"It wasn't fair, what I thought," Angela continues. "It was selfish."

"What do you mean?"

She wipes his other cheek. Her thin fingertip trails over his face. "Even when you have to leave, you make sure someone's here. Everything I ever wanted, you made sure it was here. You've made everything in my life that much easier. Convenient isn't a bad thing. My life was convenient and I'm lucky it was. I could have fucked it all up, and where would I be now?"

"_Is_."

"What?"

"Your life_ is_ convenient," Edward insists.

"Breast cancer is inconvenient. The first time. The second time. I'm always trying to fuck things up."

Edward cannot force any more words out of his mouth.

"Without you here, Edward, I'd be screwed right now. All of my doubting was wrong. We were right. I'm sorry for that."

Edward kisses his wife's cheek. He makes sure she has a glass of water and another vomit bag by the bed. He tries to smile. He can't say goodnight because he still can't find his voice.

In the living room he falls onto the couch. He eyes stacks of papers on the dining room table that he hadn't thought to hide before calling Emmett over.

The papers stand as proof that he's looking for a way through this mess. He's not without hope. There's a possibility he could get Angela's medication from the drug company for free under a compassionate care program. He is a capable man. He can find employment. As Isabella Swan pointed out, he still has a few shares of random stock he can cash in.

But another thought pokes at the periphery of his conscious mind. Apparently, the only thing that's made Angela appreciate him is how he's handled her illness. She's doubted all the help he's given and every sacrifice he's made. She's second-guessed this house he's worked so hard to keep over their heads. She's doubted the life he's tried so hard to build.

And now, now that doubt has merit. Now that she is settled in her choice, now that she is assured… now there is actually a solid basis for that doubt. Now that she is wasting away in front of his eyes, now she is sure.

He wants to be angry. He closes his eyes and counts to ten. He tries to think of good times.

xXxXx

_"Are you sure?" he'd asked._

_He could never read Angela's signals, no matter how hard he'd tried. She seemed hot one minute, cold the next. Emmett had said it was all a game; she was just trying to play him – to make Edward want her more. It must have worked like a charm, because Edward wanted her. He'd lay in bed at night and jack off to visions of her naked._

_Finally, that summer night between junior and senior year she was naked underneath him, vigorously nodding her head with her eyes closed. She bent her knees, allowing him access._

_"I want to feel like you want to touch me, though" he whispered in her ear._

_Angela tentatively placed her hands on his shoulders._

_"I won't hurt you," he insisted._

_She'd been a virgin; of course she was frightened._

_"Seriously, Angela, are you sure?"_

xXxXx

She'd never been sure.

The memory does not calm Edward's nerves and he tries something different. In his mind he substitutes Bella Swan for Angela Webber-Cullen.

"You should have taken care," Bella Swan snaps at him from the other side of the booth.

"I. Do. Take. Care."

In his mind Edward lunges across the table, pulls Bella Swan out of her seat by her lapels and drags her across the table in front of him. He sits back leaving her on her hands and knees.

"Still not enough," she snarls.

In his mind there's room in the booth for Edward to grab Bella's thighs and pull them toward him, enough room to force her down onto his lap. In his mind her chest heaves and her tits nearly escape her top and he hastily forces her skirt up to her waist. In his mind his dick is effortlessly inside and her back arches as she whimpers. In his mind his hand is on her bare hip guiding her rhythm and her back thumps against the table. In his mind he pounds her with his dick for the entire bar to see. He tugs at her hair, pulling back her head. He snakes a hand underneath her top.

"Is this enough? Is this enough?" he growls.

xXxXx

Immediately afterwards, Edward is embarrassed. He is a responsible man and not inclined to bad, imaginary pornography. His (recently) grateful wife is critically ill in the other room. His life is a mess. His pants are a mess. The only sound in the house is his breathing. He is alone and sad. He is a failure.

He pulls off his pants and Jacob Black's card falls to the ground.

On his way to the washing machine Edward tosses the card on top of the rest of his paperwork. Minutes later he sits down at the dining room table in his shirtsleeves and boxer briefs intent on piecing together what is left of his life.

* * *

**A/N: To SereneInNC & Obsmama: I couldn't do this without you, chickas! Muchos gracias! To everyone else that's started reading: thanks for your reviews & favorites & love. Thanks for nominating Shame for FoTW! If y'all want to vote for it, get on over to TLS: www . tehlemonadestand . net**

**Happy Friday & have a fabulous weekend!**

**Until next Friday, ~BDC**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks so freakin' much to SereneInNC and Obsmama for giving me the courage to post this little fic. It turns out that I need more virtual handholding than I would have imagined. Now, without further ado, Chapter 5 (my favorite yet):**

* * *

_"This is what I've been told by my executive team: Employees are scared. Empty desks and lifeless computer screens distract my employees from their work. Employees whisper in break-rooms and in bathrooms. Employees don't know whom to trust._

_Meanwhile, I am flabbergasted. I am appalled. This information very nearly makes me second-guess my motivations. It almost suggests that SAG's manpower is not up to the task at hand. This information makes me angry._

_Why?_

_Because my employees have no reason for this rumored temerity._

_You all have just survived the largest, most extensive corporate restructuring in the past seventy-five years. You are living through the second great depression, and living well, at that. You drive past empty businesses, past people on food lines, past insolvent banks. Where are you driving? To SAG Global, where you are employed._

_Why do you have a job? Why were you spared?_

_Because you're good at what you do, people. You are excellent at what you do. You are the victors. You are the more powerful, the more brilliant, the more inspired. You are the best of the best._

_You are the people I want with me while we re-build this institution, while we take this golden opportunity to conquer the world… of finance._

_There is no time for ambiguity or self-doubt. There is no time for gossip. There is no time for you to act like a shadow of yourselves. There is only time for you to do your jobs as your directors have instructed. There is only time for innovation and the brave pursuit of capital._

_Are you with me?_

_I hope there was a resounding 'yes' shouted in offices in here in Los Angeles, in New York, San Francisco, London, and Tokyo, because I can find a few thousand people willing to say yes if you have any doubt."_

Bella Swan scowls as she switches off her computer monitor. She is not one for pep talks, but her plan requires discipline and fear has left her workforce impotent. Bella finds that fear is not an optimal motivator. There are many other emotions that drive people to action, while fear keeps one cowering in corners. Bella had a chance early on in her life to either let herself become immobilized by fear or to move past that peculiarly vulnerable emotion. She has never looked back. She does not appreciate others that do.

Bella takes solace, though, in the knowledge that her message will be broadcast in time with the rotation of the earth on its axis. Her speech will repeat itself over more than a thousand-fold after each employee turns on their computer monitor at the beginning of the workday. She can hear the melody and rhythm of her message as it plays in a round, jumping across oceans and spanning continents.

Pleased at that prospect, Bella pushes her chair from her desk and basks in warm rays of setting sun. Slanting evening light streams into the office, tracing a silver path along the dark hardwood from the windows to her desk. It warms her neck and her lap and falls onto the desktop, illuminating the golden flecks in the grain of the Carpathian elm. It makes the solitary, simple file folder on the desktop appear to shimmer.

Bella's fingertips fiddle with the edge of the folder. She gives in to a desire bubbling from within and brings the file with her to the window. Standing with the city at her feet, she is aware of the gentle resistance of her slim skirt against her thighs. She takes a deep breath and feels the scratch of her lace bustier as it presses against the wool of her suit jacket. Her fingertips remind her that a trace of the undergarment is visible at her collar. Pearls are wrapped around her throat. Black lace garters hold up her silk stockings.

She is thrilled.

The hint of a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

Once more she opens the dossier in her hands. Bella knows the value of research when one is trying to close a deal. This file and the information contained within should assure her success. This file is dedicated to _him_.

She leafs through one document after the next. His father, a former security guard, was recently laid off after the company he worked for went bankrupt. His sister is married to a struggling mechanic. Their mortgage is more than the two can comfortably bear. His other sister is holed up in the hallowed halls of higher education, accumulating loans that will likely cripple her for the foreseeable future.

The members of this family aren't detritus, though; they are the fabric of the global work force. Their lot makes Bella's job that much easier, her goals that much more attainable. Desperate people have few options. They are concerned with survival and cannot fathom domination.

Desperate people… She leafs through his college transcripts and bank statements. She leafs through student loan deferments and second mortgages. She leafs through the evidence of his relentless effort, takes a deep breath and presses her thighs together.

"Ms. Swan?" Laurent's voice crackles over her office's intercom.

With a swift motion and sure steps she makes her way back to the desk and deposits the folder in the top drawer, sealing its existence away with a key.

"Laurent?"

"I have Mr. Cameron on line one."

"Put him through."

Ready for accolades, Bella makes her way to the bar to pour herself a small but satisfying reward. She sinks into a buttery brown leather lounge chair, takes a sip and crosses her legs. The lace of her stockings plays at the hem of her skirt.

"I'm just reviewing the cut, Ms. Swan. That was quite a performance. I think it should do," Jared's voice assures.

"It wasn't a performance, Jared. It was the simple the truth. To prove my point I want you to schedule interviews for commodities positions and to leak this information to the London office. I need them on their toes."

Bella hears papers rustling and voices in the background on Jared's end of the line as his team scrambles to get to work.

"Tell me we're moving on China's commodities," she threatens.

"As we speak."

"And the investment vehicle we've discussed?"

"Embry's making a market in it. We're short."

"Volturi?" she practically purrs.

"Moving cautiously, Ms. Swan. Sitting on capital. They're leaning on government bonds and precious metals. Aro's taken a meeting with Brazil's energy cartel."

Bella's head snaps in the direction of the intercom. "Brazil? Why? There's nothing left in that country but bananas and beef."

Jared's voice falters. He's finally exhausted easy answers.

"I want eyes on the ground in Brazil. I want an explanation," Bella commands. " I expect to see you in my office with preliminary answers tomorrow morning at five a.m."

"Yes, Ms. Swan."

An uncomfortable silence reigns as Bella takes another sip of her beverage. With no more instructions forthcoming, Jared bids good evening and the line goes dead.

Bella sighs in frustration. Unanswered questions are a source of deep dissatisfaction. Aro Volturi should not be wasting his time in Brazil. Ice clinks in her glass as she brings it to her lips and carefully considers what may have motivated his sudden flight to South America. Condensation wets her fingertips as the whiskey wets her unsatisfied palette. The silk of her stockings slips over supple leather as she re-crosses her legs. Golden yellow rays of the setting sun light the room from near the horizon framing Bella's face.

"Ms. Swan?" Laurent's disembodied voice inquires.

"What is it?" she snaps.

"Mr. Black has arrived with company. He is being relieved of his belongings as you instructed."

Whiskey quite suddenly begins to warm Bella Swan from the inside out and thoughts of Aro Volturi temporarily slip from her mind.

She knew he would come. She thought he would have come sooner.

He's missed a mortgage payment.

His health insurance has lapsed.

He's still holding five shares of random stock, but he is undone.

Bella takes a deep breath, another sip of her drink, and a personal inventory. Two buttons slipped from their closure would reveal black lace lingerie. A subtle slide of her skirt would reveal the black lace of her garters. A single clip holds her hair on top of her head, and with a nearly silent click it would cascade down her back. Her carefully cultivated exterior is held in place with little more than will. It is easy to become undone. One simply has to make assurances that one can be put back together again.

That is something that financiers world over have neglected.

That is something Edward Cullen has neglected.

That is a line Bella Swan likes to walk, but one she never crosses.

"Ms. Swan?" Laurent's digitized voice crackles over the intercom.

Bella leans back in her seat and something akin to a smile settles on her lips. "Bring him in, Laurent."

There are steps outside the office door, then a click and she is graced with a wry smile from her assistant, Laurent. He steps aside and Edward Cullen walks slowly into the room, his hands deep in the pockets of his slacks, his top lip trapped between his teeth. He's in his shirtsleeves, of course, his jacket having been confiscated.

"Ms. Swan?" Laurent asks again, this time from the doorway.

With a confirmatory nod from Bella Swan, he steps back and the door swings shut.

Bella cocks her head, surveying the man standing before her. His dull white shirt is wrinkled at the flanks, his navy tie pulled loose at the collar. He has pale purple shadows beneath his eyes.

His eyes.

Bella blinks slowly, purposefully, to refocus.

Edward interrupts her silent reverie. "I need to know what you want, Ms. Swan."

Bella's smile grows, almost against her will. "You're getting ahead of us both, Mr. Cullen. First tell me what brought you here."

"I need a job."

"You know I'm not going to give you a job."

"I need help, then."

"The Lord helps those that help themselves, Mr. Cullen. And while I can't claim to be the Lord, I am likewise disinclined to perform random acts of kindness."

"I don't think that's the intended meaning of the phrase," Edward argues.

Bella chuckles. "And I don't think you came here to discuss religious philosophy."

Edward clenches his jaw. Bella can see his hands forming into fists in his pockets. "I'm not here to play games, Ms. Swan."

"That's exactly why you're here Mr. Cullen. Now, do take a seat so that we can discuss this civilly."

Edward narrows his eyes, but doesn't make a move to take sit down. He considers leaving without looking back. He considers desperate actions, like selling his car or his home or his kidney… like selling his wife's engagement ring that sits unworn on her nightstand. Bella Swan uncrosses and re-crosses her legs and Edward's eyes travel up her body. He stops considering.

"Please take a seat," Bella commands, yet the man remains stubborn, standing a few feet from the entry.

Bella studies Edward Cullen from across the room. She watches the rise of his chest as he takes a breath. She detects the edge of pain in his eyes before he refocuses his attention out the window instead of at her.

"You don't have options," she insists.

"Why are you doing this?" he appears to ask the passing clouds.

"You were easy prey, Mr. Cullen. I had no choice but to inflict the wound, but rest assured, I can help."

"By playing a game?"

"Go ahead, tell me again why you are here."

Edward steels himself to continue. He attempts to quell the anger that is trying to force its way to the surface. He concentrates on avoiding eye contact, on avoiding looking at all. "I need resources to get me… to get _my family_ some security until I can pick up the pieces."

"You need _me_."

Edward knows only that he needs money, insurance and a medical miracle. He doesn't need Bella Swan, but he can't stop thinking about her. He can't help being tempted by the idea that he might find a way out of his trouble without admitting to his family that he is a failure... He can't help but wonder what she might be proposing.

_Sex_.

That possibility seems blatant and unlikely. It seems all too abstract. Sex is an activity that had been given up in favor of nursing. It had been something attempted with his wife eighteen months ago that ended in tears and bitter embarrassment.

"I don't need you," he growls, speaking to himself as much as Bella Swan.

Bella sighs. She understands. Drink in hand, she rises to her feet and takes a step in Edward's direction.

"This situation affords us both an opportunity, Mr. Cullen. I don't need you either, but your existence is convenient. Even better – it is sport."

She admires Edward Cullen as he stands his ground and studiously avoids eye contact, while she moves closer.

"You wonder about my proposal. Well, you hit on the question the moment you walked into this room. _What do I want_? That is the question I would like to consume your every waking moment. Your job from this moment on is to figure out what I want, Mr. Cullen. Figure it out and then deliver it. If you manage this, you'll be rewarded in a commensurate fashion."

Bella ends her speech and her short journey near the corner of her desk, mere feet from Edward Cullen. Edward can no longer avoid looking at Bella. Her brown eyes are narrowed, her plump lips held in a self-satisfied line. She is certain of herself, and certain that he will bend to her preposterous will.

"You're sick," he sneers.

"I don't appreciate your attitude, Mr. Cullen. You were guilty the moment you walked into this room."

"You're buying someone to care for you."

Bella takes another careful step and looks Edward Cullen in the eye.

"Really? Then what, pray tell, are you selling? Don't fool yourself, Mr. Cullen. I've asked you over and over again to tell my why you're here. Your family, you say. Your desperate need."

Bella Swan surprises Edward with her touch - specifically, by taking hold of his penis through his slacks. "Your dick, Mr. Cullen. You know exactly why you're here."

Edward reacts swiftly. Grabbing Bella's wrist, he pushes her up against the door, pinning her hand over her head. Bella's chest heaves and her eyes flash. With Laurent and Jacob Black just on the other side of the door, she knows she is not in any real danger. She is a lioness playing a lamb and every cell in her body comes to life. She slides her thigh upward until it makes firm contact.

"This is why you are here, Mr. Cullen."

Edward pins her to the door with the force of his whole body hot and heavy against hers. His green eyes flash and he tightens his grip on her wrist while Bella hears the muffled clank of a belt buckle and feels jostling in conjunction with the zip of a fly. Edward yanks at her skirt, tears and tangles with garters and panties as he forces her body higher. All too quickly and with a decidedly ungraceful jerk and hitch he hoists Bella and thrusts, forcing himself inside of her.

For a moment the two combatants go still, frozen in the actualization of their mutual desire. Bella finds it difficult to breathe, electrified from within. Edward finds something he has quietly desired for years: he finds himself against a doorway, inside a woman who wraps a long leg around his hip. His eyes take in the hint of a bosom, the arc of a long neck, tendrils of shining hair playing along an earlobe, and come to rest on Bella's face. She offers a raised eyebrow and a smirk. "I told you so," she whispers.

Edward's actions are hard and unrelenting after this. He gathers both wrists above Bella's head and watches as her eyes close while he pounds her, knocking the door against its frame. He watches the tops of Bella's concealed breasts shake with each thrust, and he is frustrated. She is too clothed. She is too uninterested. He tugs at her suit jacket and pulls at the lace bustier struggling to force it out of the way. He wants more than the tops of her tits; he wants her naked, he wants to see her nipples and her ass, he wants to see himself disappearing inside of her.

Bella turns her face toward the window and Edward is incensed. He is here. He is inside of her. He needs her attention. He hates her and he wants her and his life is shit and she won't even look at him. Edward surprises himself as he grabs Bella's jaw and forces her face back towards him and pushes her head firmly against the door.

"Look at me when I fuck you," he grunts.

Bella's eyes radiate subtle shock and Edward loosens his grip, afraid of his own impulse. He handles his former employer more carefully afterwards, gripping her ass, pinning her with his pelvis, attempting to take care. The cotton of his button rubs against Bella's tits. They are full and pert and he wants to touch, but he can't spare a hand. That's not all Edward, wants, though. Edward finds there is suddenly so much he wants. He wants skin on skin and a large mattress. He wants kisses and blow jobs. He wants laughter and nudity and to make out on the beach. He wants the kind of things he always thought he would have, but never did.

Bella senses that she is losing Edward's Cullen's undivided attention. He is no longer fucking her with a vengeance. His mind moved on and his hands have gone soft. Displeased, Bella lets her head fall forward until her lips graze against Edward's mouth. Edward feels her warm breath scented of cinnamon and scotch. He feels her lips slide from his mouth, to his jaw, to his neck… and then he feels intense pain as Bella bites down hard where she's kissed. This is so much like his recent shower fantasy that Edward can't hold on and his body stiffens as he empties himself inside Bella.

Afterward, Edward slumps, leaning against the door in order to hold himself aloft as he tries to catch his breath. He rubs the spot on his neck where he's been bitten. Bella slips out from beneath his long, slanting frame and turns her back to him, facing the windows. Edward watches Bella as she slips her jacket from her shoulders and lays it folded over the back of her chair. Twilight streams through the windows and a golden aura casts Bella's feminine frame in silhouette. He admires the slender curve of her back and the swells of her breasts as she inspects her damaged lace lingerie and unclasps the hook and eye closures that run along her spine, dropping the garment to the floor.

"Make no mistake, that was what you wanted, Mr. Cullen. Next time, we'll concentrate on my desires," Bella murmurs as she unsnaps garters, releasing torn stockings. She takes a seat in her chair, still facing away from Edward, slips her feet from her stilettos, and slips off stockings and a lacy undergarment. Once her bare feet are back in shoes, she stands and walks toward the window. Bella smooths her skirt and then begins rearranging her wavy, tousled hair neatly on top of her head.

"From here forward you'll wear a condom before your dick comes in contact with me, Mr. Cullen. And as I mentioned before, you'll put me and my desires first. You will come to me where and when I say you will.

There's no use in making a show of this arrangement. No one would believe you, and I frankly wouldn't care if they did. I fucked a down on his luck former employee and tried to help him in his time of need. You are clearly the asshole in this scenario and will gain nothing by going public.

I hold all of the cards, Mr. Cullen: health insurance, mortgage, your father's pension, your younger sister's student loans. The better you perform, the better life you will make for your family."

Bella turns around and trains her eyes on Edward's crotch. Edward, meanwhile, finds it difficult to tear his eyes from Bella's bare breasts. She has small, dark nipples and he wants to think he is the reason they're hard. Edward's concentrated gaze pleases Bella, and she walks slowly and deliberately back toward her prey, picking up her suit jacket along the way.

"You'll need to clean yourself up, she murmurs as she slides a hand down the front of Edward's pants, finding him coated in her wetness in a state of semi arousal. Bella takes a firm hold and whispers in Edward's ear. "Save that for next time, Mr. Cullen." She nips at Edward's earlobe and presses her breasts against him. "You've earned yourself a mortgage payment."

Edward isn't expecting the abrupt withdrawal of Bella's hand or the three sharp raps on the door next to his head. Before he knows what is happening, the door swings open and he stumbles into Bella's assistant, Laurent who was standing in the entryway, just on the other side of the partition. Edward notices Mr. Black seated in a chair a few feet away with a bemused smile on his lips.

"Show Mr. Cullen the bathroom, Laurent?" Bella asks as she slips her arms into her suit jacket and buttons it over her bare breasts. "And Jacob?" Bella calls.

Mr. Black makes haste and brushes by Edward Cullen on his way into Bella's office.

"Make an appointment with Mr. Cullen for next Tuesday. I'll have him back here in my office."

"Of course, Ms. Swan."

"What about -" Edward begins, but he's silenced by the look on Bella Swan's face.

"Mr. Black will return your possessions on the way out. That is all, Mr. Cullen."

Laurent grabs hold of Edward's arm and guides him out of the room. Edward notices Mr. Black scoop up the pile of sullied lingerie from the office floor before he begins to pull the door closed. The last Edward sees of Bella Swan, she's leaning back in a chair with her bare legs crossed while her fingertips play with the collar of her suit jacket, or possibly her bare nipple hidden just beneath the thin layer of wool. She's deeply engaged in files she's produced from a desk drawer and doesn't look up as the door swings shut between them.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for voting for Shame for FoTW at TLS!**

**Psst... It's my birthday. **

**Until next time ~BDC**


	6. Chapter 6

Edward is exhilarated. The muscles in his arms and thighs are quivering from exertion. He's caught his breath, but feels he's able to breathe deeper than he has since he ran track in college. His skin is hyper-aware of everything it comes into contact with, like it had forgotten to register the everyday feeling of cotton, leather, and the cool afternoon breeze. Other sensations are just as real to him as the steering wheel he is currently gripping: lace, silk, the smooth tickle of long hair, the warmth of a toned thigh.

Edward tries to soberly concentrate on clinical facts as he makes his way back home, but fails miserably.

"_Same deal next Thursday, Mr. Cullen_," Mr. Black said as he handed Edward a discrete appointment card and returned his wallet, suit jacket and leather case. "_Four p.m_."

Edward hadn't necessarily been intent on making a deal, at least that's what he tells himself. Pushed to the point of desperation, he simply wanted to clarify the terms Isabella Swan was offering. He hadn't intended any of… that.

_That_.

Edward chastises himself. He is an adult. He can admit what he's done. He hadn't intended to have sex with another woman. He hadn't planned on being assaulted or manipulated. Yes, that's exactly what it had been.

Assault.

Manipulation.

Anger and lust.

Images from the afternoon resurface in a tangled menagerie in Edward's conscious mind. How warm she'd been as he pressed against her, the dare in her eyes, the wet heat of her vagina... how he'd surprised her when he grabbed her face and forced her to see him. He'd actually shocked them both with his actions. Yet, while his instinctual response to his brutish behavior borders on embarrassment, in reflection, he is certain that what he noticed in Bella Swan's expression in that small moment was more than shock and fear. He'd brought her unexpected pleasure. This realization, in turn, greatly pleases Edward Cullen as well, although he is less than willing to admit it.

Assuring himself that his analysis is driven by a need to fully understand what transpired, not that he is emboldened by his unexpected conquest, Edward carefully plays through the events of the evening: from first contact to the point where he stood and watched Bella Swan's topless silhouette by the window as she stepped out of her heels and attended to her stockings. He enjoys that moment at the end almost more than penetration or ejaculation. In that moment she was simply a small, pretty woman that he'd just had sex with.

He regrets that he hadn't the presence of mind to go to her while she'd gazed out the window - to run his hands over her hips and unzip her skirt and get her completely naked. He regrets not getting his hands or his mouth on her bare breasts. He can't help but wonder if those desires might be on the list of things Bella Swan wants from him. This trifling thought, in turn, sets Edward's mind loose and all manner of scenarios burst forth from some base region deep within his brain. Dark images he would have never formerly considered mix with laughter and make-out sessions, leading toward something illicit and undeniably enticing.

Edward's heart begins pounding and he quite suddenly finds it unusually difficult to breathe. He rolls down the car window and warm wind whips into the Volvo's interior, bringing him back to the present. He holds tight to the steering wheel. He pounds the dashboard with his fist. He pulls into his subdivision, driving toward the home he shares with his critically ill wife.

Edward has never cheated on his wife before. He's loved Angela and has dedicated himself heart and soul to the life he tried to build with her. Edward planned a future that would involve children and birthday parties, senior proms and college funds, and it would have eventually involved old age, grandchildren, and the satisfaction of a life well lived.

He's quite consciously modeled himself in his father's image: from his father's willingness to always work hard, to the way his father doted on his mother, to the way the two of them found satisfaction in the simple pleasure of one another's presence. His father married his mother right out of high school. He'll tell any man that will listen that Esme is the only woman he's ever loved, and that his wife and his children were what made his life worth living.

Edward recalls how, nearly ten years ago, everything miraculously seemed to fall into place in his own life when he'd presented Angela with a ring. It was the beginning of his dream with his dream girl. It was his turn to fall madly in love and make a life. It was the fix that put everything in the right place: it would keep Angela in Southern California, in his heart and in his bed.

Edward was known for doing everything right, and he made certain the ring, the proposal and the wedding were all on point. Emmett wanted to make certain the bachelor party was also up to code, but Edward was of a more low key ilk. The night before the big day was spent at a local bar with his best man, his father, and a few sundry friends that he now only speaks with via Facebook posts. As the first of his circle to tie the knot, everyone regarded him with uneasy awe – all except his father. Carlisle Cullen was drunk with pride, and with Guinness. He was intent on bestowing wisdom, and pleased to appear the sage on the matter.

xXxXx

_"Take it from me, Ed; it's not all roses," his dad said after he polished off his umpteenth beer. "Being a husband means more than giving it to her."_

_Edward coughed on his drink. He did not want to think about his father giving it to his mom. In fact, he was secretly pleased that he and his siblings had been adopted – there was no conclusive evidence his parents had ever engaged in that particular activity._

_"Being a husband, a good one, that's the sign of a real man, Edward. Being a good husband and a real man means doing stuff you might not want to do, just for the sake of your family. It means doing the tough jobs and always putting your family first. It means committing to this vow you're gonna make even when there's nothing going on between the sheets. Sex comes and goes." Carlisle smirked. "Sex… comes, and…comes..." Edward's father lost the trail of his wisdom in a drunken chuckle. Emmett joined in as well, enjoying Carlisle's mirth just as much as Edward's embarrassment._

_"I got it, Dad," Edward tried to assure his father. He stood, planning to get some air and recover his composure, but Carlisle clamped his hand on his shoulder, holding him in place._

_"You don't get it, though, Son. You can't. Not until you're in it. But I raised you right and I know you mean well. I know you'll do the right thing by this girl."_

xXxXx

Edward feels sick to his stomach as he turns into his driveway. It is a familiar feeling these days, however it is seldom accompanied by a damp crotch – the result of his attempt to wash away any evidence of his recent indiscretion.

"Angela?" he calls as he walks in the front door.

He's met, instead, by his mother-in-law, Donna Webber, a stout woman with a tight perm who perpetually gives everyone she encounters the air that she is magnanimously trying her best to approve of them.

"Angela's sleeping," Mrs. Webber hisses. She shakes her head and purses her lips in silent reproach of the volume of Edward's voice.

"How is she?" he asks in a whisper.

Mrs. Webber's eyes become glassy. "The same as this morning and the same as last night, and…" Mrs. Webber bites her lip and turns her back on Edward. She sorts through the day's mail and hands Edward a stack of bills: the electric, the gas and a slim envelope reading "URGENT" in red ink from the oncologist's office.

Edward stashes the missives in his back pocket, intent on focusing on his wife. "Good then. Not worse."

"And not better!" Mrs. Webber slams her fist on the table. Her exclamation is much louder than Edward's voice had been, but he does not point out this fact. "We want her to get better, Edward. We don't want to her to stay sick like this forever."

"Of course," Edward stammers. "Of course." He contemplates placing a reassuring hand on his mother-in-law's shoulder, but thinks better of it.

"I think you've both forgotten that," Mrs. Webber continues in a quieter voice. "I think everyone's forgotten that. My daughter isn't supposed to be sick. Don't you want your wife to get better?"

"Of course," Edward repeats. This question cuts to the quick, though. Edward cannot recall the last time he considered the possibility that Angela might recover. He thinks about keeping her from suffering. He thinks about keeping her mind free from worry. He thinks about her death.

"Then we need to do something. We need to find someone that will help her to live. She can't go on this way."

When Donna Webber finally turns to Edward with tears in her eyes, Edward doesn't hesitate to fold her plump body into his arms.

Dinner is a quiet affair. Mrs. Webber tries to smile. Angela tries to eat. Edward tries desperately to maintain a sense of outward composure. He is keenly aware, however, that he is incapable of helping his wife. He's come face to face with yet another way in which he's failed the woman seated across from him. How he's earned his mother-in-law's disdain in the most egregious of ways.

At his first opportunity he escapes the suffocating anxiety of the dining room, ducks into the bathroom and opens the letter from the oncologist's office. He's received an itemized bill for several thousand dollars and notification that this claim has been denied by his (former) insurance company. Attached is a friendly note from one of the women in the finance office. They assume he's simply forgotten to update his insurance information and suggests that he drop off an updated card upon his wife's next office visit.

This time around when Edward's stomach roils uncomfortably the toilet is a convenient distance from his mouth. He hears footsteps linger outside the door as he is retching, but the hall is empty when he emerges from the bathroom. Angela and her mother greet Edward with an identical tight-lipped smile upon his return to the dining room. Mrs. Webber offers a cup of tea. Angela goes back to one of her more recent reliable pastimes and gazes wanly at her reflection in the sliding glass door. Edward feels as if he is physically being torn in two. He has never simultaneously wanted to escape and to give his wife everything humanly possible as he does in that moment. Instead, he excuses himself, slides the back door open (obstructing Angela's vacant view) and mumbles an excuse before wandering off into the empty night.

xXxXx

"What's it about this one?" Jacob asks Bella Swan from the opposite side of the backseat of a chauffeured Town Car.

"He tries too hard."

Jacob chuckles nervously. "Like a certain executive I know."

"I don't _try,_ Jacob. I get what I want. Some men though, they try and try and try…" Bella's voice trails off. She dreams that she sees reflections of _him_ in the flickering lights of the car window - as he would anxiously work himself into a sweat in front of his monitor at work, as he anxiously worked himself into a sweat inside of her. Taking another breath, Bella's vision of Edward becomes a reflection of Jacob Black fidgeting next to her in the car.

"Not like you," Bella says quietly, her eyes still on the scenery outside of her window. "You get me everything I want. You simply aim too low when it comes to your own sense of self."

"I beg to differ," Jacob mumbles. His voice has a sandpaper edge to it and he goes for a bottle of water. He is not surprised by this turn in the conversation. Bella has a habit of effortlessly guessing his thoughts. "Is this one on his way up, or on his way out?" Jacob asks by way of recovery.

"His life as he knows it is over."

"Out then."

Bella is surprised that Jacob's assessment, although obvious, does not leave her pleased. She would like to think that Edward Cullen's case is not as cut and dry as all the others. Bella is not, and has never been a champion of the underdog, though. Somewhat dismayed in herself, she chalks this unwarranted feeling up to oxytocin and resolves to play the game by the rules. The rules dictate that Edward Cullen will cross all of the lines while she holds all of the cards. The rules are there for a reason.

She overlooks the one blatant example of her rules broken, though. He travels with her back from the office and assists with her every conquest.

Jacob Black is quietly relieved to know that Edward Cullen is on his way out.

* * *

**A/N: I know, I know... no angry sex in this one. Sorry about that. I told you I was a bad fanfic author. SereneInNC and Obsmama are both awesome, though, and I couldn't do this without them. Thanks guys!**

**Next chapter won't be so sad, but it will probably be just as wrong. **

**Until next time, ~BDC**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Fanfiction is about fun & escape from RL. Let's get back to that, shall we?**

* * *

Ch. 7

It is eleven thirty-five on Tuesday morning. Isabella Swan's jet is fueling on a tarmac. She has been summoned to Washington to discuss the state of the nation's finances. As the CEO of SAF Global, she will be called upon to rescue AmeriCap Holdings from the brink of bankruptcy. She will offer insight, elicit interest, and allow Volturi to step in and take ownership of the floundering firm in her stead. She will not leave Washington with her company weighed down by worthless debt, but she will leave the government with a list of six carefully crafted steps that must be taken to shore up the nation's financial system and create liquidity in the marketplace. These demands will also solidify SAF's global dominance.

Aro Volturi will not be in attendance at the upcoming meeting and this fact has Bella in a fit of consternation. There are rumors that Aro is convalescing in Argentina, but Bella doesn't believe this for a heartbeat. Captains of industry and financial titans like Aro Volturi do not convalesce in times of crisis. They grow in wealth and power and as a result they live far beyond the limit of their own mortal life spans. Carnegie didn't convalesce. Rockefeller didn't run away from industry at the height of the revolution. J.P. Morgan stepped into the power vacuum during the gold panic; he didn't escape south of the border. Either Bella's plan to topple Volturi will be a one-sided and uneventful endeavor, or Aro Volturi has a plan she cannot decipher.

Meanwhile, Jared Cameron has been unable to produce a single substantiated lead about Aro Volturi's Argentinean intentions, thus falling short as her right hand man. Bella does not reward mediocrity, and as a result Jared will not be accompanying her as she advises the leader of the free world. Embry Call has eagerly filled Jared's shoes and waits outside her office alongside her assistant, Laurent.

Bella waits inside.

The nation's latest banking emergency has forced her to cancel several executive meetings, an important strategy session, a workout with her trainer and a fitting with her personal shopper. She's moved her four p.m. to eleven to accommodate her flight, yet she sits in her office alone over half an hour later. The President of the United States and the heads of the five largest financial institutions in the nation all unsuspectingly wait for an unemployed information technology specialist to drop his pants.

Strictly speaking, this fact should anger Bella Swan. She is not pleased with Edward Cullen, and she wants nothing more than for him to please her. Yet she enjoys keeping people waiting, and as her anticipation grows with her annoyance she cannot help but look forward to the forthcoming exchange.

She wore stockings with elasticized bands because he could not manage garters. She's taken off her suit jacket and is aware that her cream silk blouse gives a subtle impression of the white lace underneath, especially as the noonday light streams through the windows. In fact, she's made a point of tying back the dark velvet drapes to allow as much light into the room as possible. She's thought ahead and doesn't want the shadow of Edward Cullen's brow to get in the way of seeing his emotions. The last time she'd had him in the office she'd come so close to the anger, pain and desire that was emanating from his eyes that she wants better access to the spectacle this time around.

Bella attempts to focus on the spreadsheet, balance sheet and income statement flickering on the monitor in front of her, instead of on Edward Cullen's eyes. She has all but decided on a hostile acquisition of a small financial services firm out of Chicago. While she makes nice with the feds, Quill and Paul will be in charge of quietly acquiring a controlling interest in OmniVest.

"_Ms. Swan_?" Laurent asks over her intercom. Bella's attention immediately shifts and she closes her laptop. Laurent has been instructed to interrupt her for only one reason.

Bella leans back in her seat with eyes steadily trained on the door that she's recently been fucked against. "Send him in," she commands.

Bella's skin sizzles and her lungs try desperately to draw excess oxygen into her bloodstream, priming her body for the interaction she craves. When the door opens, Edward Cullen enters the office unaccompanied and Bella can't help but grin. His hair is held stylishly in place, his well-worn Oxford is crisply starched, his trousers have been pressed and his shoes even shine. He's an observant man. After only two meetings he's deduced what she prefers.

"Laurent?" Bella asks the intercom.

"_Yes, Ms. Swan_."

"Bring Mr. Cullen his suit jacket, please?"

Laurent immediately appears in the doorway and hands Edward his jacket. "Yes, Ms. Swan," he says with a nod before shutting the door, leaving Edward and Bella alone together in the office.

Edward clasps the jacket by the collar, letting it hang by his side in his tight fist. He makes no move to don the garment in a demonstration of defiance. In fact, Bella is unexpectedly impressed by the look of stoic determination on Edward Cullen's clean-shaven face. She'd expected repentance. She'd expected fear. She hadn't expected an emotion bordering on opposition.

"You're late."

"Our meeting was at noon," Edward argues. He tosses the jacket onto a nearby chair.

"I moved the meeting to eleven, Mr. Cullen. And I'd like you to wear the jacket."

"I couldn't make it here by eleven, and I'm not putting the jacket on after you made me take it off." Edward is disgusted by the fact that he's been reduced to a toddler throwing a tantrum, yet resents what appears to be an oft-practiced ritual: a thorough pat down followed by the confiscation of his personal belongings and his suit jacket. He resents the fact that he is at Bella Swan's home office at all this morning, and also, ironically, resents that there is a part of himself that is pleased the meeting was pushed up.

"Those are my terms. I said you were to be available when and where I ask you to be, Mr. Cullen."

"Our meeting was for this afternoon and I have a wife."

"_This_ isn't about your wife."

Edward walks swiftly across the office, leans on Bella's desk and lowers his eyes to hers. "Yes. It. Is."

Bella grins and leans back in her chair. "Please go on."

Edward stands, disarmed by Bella's cool demeanor in the face of his very visceral consternation. "You said at the bar that there were things you could get her."

"Say her name," Bella quietly taunts.

Edward winces. "_Angela_. There are things you could do for Angela that I couldn't. I want those things."

"Tell me what you want, then."

Edward swallows. His eyes burn. "I want to really help her. I've given up on being able to do anything else, but I'd like to do that."

"Tell me what you want," Bella slowly repeats, leaning forward, elbows on the desk. She and Edward are both aware that this affords him the opportunity to enjoy her cleavage.

Edward's eyes cannot help but dip, but then he forces his attention back on Bella's face, on her big brown eyes that manage to feel warm and cold all at once, at her shiny plump lips that brushed against his less than a week ago in this very room. "I want to make her better. I need more than insurance. I need the best care. I need something that might work."

Bella sees his eyes dart once more after he's finished his speech. She pushes her chair from the desk, leans back and lounges. She and Edward are both hyper-aware of her body. Bella enjoys the friction of her skirt against the hem of her stockings. The silk of her blouse raises goose bumps on her arms. Edward enjoys the shadow between Bella's breasts and the point at which white silk fades to darkness where her skirt meets her inner thighs.

Edward doesn't realize that he is biting his upper lip. Bella does.

"Tell me what you want," she purrs.

"I want you by the window." Edward's voice is deep and gruff; his statement matter-of-fact.

Bella raises an eyebrow and slowly rises from her chair, but Edward stands his ground. The intensity of his fixed stare raises the temperature between them to the point that Bella is uncomfortably warm and must fight for breath.

"_What_ do you want?" she asks, forcing herself to remember the rules. He must come to her.

"I want…" Edward attempts uncertainly. "I want…"

"I don't have all day, Mr. Cullen. _You_ were late. You, oddly enough, have demands about your wife. You're forgetting the _one_ rule. There is one object in this game. _You_ want?"

"I, um, turn around."

Bella turns toward the windows with a sigh. She sees choking air and a filmy brown expanse of atmosphere separating her building from the rest of the cityscape. Sadly, aside from his appearance, Edward Cullen does not appear to remember that he is here to guess her wishes. If he doesn't follow the rules then her playtime will be over before it has even commenced. Edward will lose his world and his wife and Bella will be left to find other distractions. She flattens her palms against the pane and wonders whether she should give him the prompt once more.

Before she's decided to speak, though, she finally hears footsteps and presently, the warmth of Edward's presence behind her. Long arms wrap around her body and fumble with the small buttons of her blouse. Bella is repulsed and begins to untangle her limbs from his.

"What do you think you're doing? What do I have to do to get through to you, Mr. Cullen? I thought you were brighter than this. Don't tell me you spent the last four days thinking about what _you_ wanted to do to _me._" Bella wriggles and pushes and tries to pry herself loose, but Edward grabs her wrists, holding them against the glass and over her head. He brings his lips to her ear.

"I've spent the past four days trying to get out of this. I've spent the past four days trying to make up for… everything I've done."

"Fumbling with my blouse in front of a window won't get you there, Mr. Cullen. Give me something I want or your heroic dreams of rescuing your helpless Angela will go up in smoke."

Edward releases one of Bella's wrists and grabs a fistful of her hair. "You don't get to say her name."

"Does _Angela_ like it by the window?"

Edward tugs, pulling Bella's head back. "_I_ need a guarantee. _I_ need this."

"There's nothing money can't buy, Mr. Cullen. Now give me what I want."

Edward releases Bella's hair and, using a knot he learned in Boy Scouts, ties one of Bella's wrists to the cord of the velvet drapes. He quickly repeats with the other wrist and Bella's arms are held aloft and spread. Edward watches her pull at the bindings and he is pleased.

He wraps his arms around Bella once more, but this time doesn't trouble himself with buttons. This time he pulls violently at the silk of her blouse. In his mind those tiny buttons should pop off and her shirt would fly open, but in the real world this is a strangely difficult task, resulting in bits of torn silk, frayed string, and an open blouse, nonetheless.

"Is this what you wanted?" he hisses, his lips against her earlobe. "_I_ wanted to see you in the afternoon light. I wanted to hold your body like this…"

Edward runs his hands over Bella's hips, holding her tentatively, stretching his fingers so that they are splayed around her curves. He is once again granted the miraculous sense of touch – and he feels the hard contours of her hips and the taut, toned skin that stretches over them. He is electrified.

"You don't want kindness, though. Right? You don't want to get close to anyone."

(Edward is wrong on two counts: one of the things Bella likes best about Edward is his kindness and she wishes she were facing Edward and close enough that she could see his eyes.)

Angered anew that he isn't supposed to fuck Bella Swan the way he'd like to, Edward finds the zipper to Bella's skirt and pulls hard enough that he tears the fabric at the bottom of the seam. He forces her skirt down and pulls at white lace panties until both skirt and undergarment rest in a puddle around Bella's ankles.

Stepping back, Edward struggles to catch his breath as he surveys the scene at his fingertips. Isabella Swan's silhouette is framed in sunshine. Her bare ass is small, round, and in Edward's estimation, quite perfect, and her legs are long and thin. White lace edges wrap around her thighs and midday sunlight streams through the gap between. He wishes she were naked and would like to get her blouse and bra out of the way, but his hasty decision to tie her wrists makes that desire useless.

Bella glances over her shoulder making eye contact with Edward. "Is this what you wanted, Mr. Cullen?" she rasps. She steps out of her skirt and panties, spreads her legs and arches her back. "What about me?" She turns toward the window once more, and her body vibrates with anticipation and power, spread bare, wide and wet above the city of Los Angeles.

Bella hears the clank of his belt buckle, the zip of his fly and the quiet rustle of a condom packet and she is certain wetness is poised to slip down her thighs. Edward fists her hair and yanks her head, wraps an arm around her bare waist and forces his way inside in one punishing thrust that lifts Bella's heels off the ground and forces the air out of her lungs. He holds and tugs and pounds, pushing Bella's breasts and forehead against the windowpane, forcing her to try to hold herself in place with palms against the slippery and sweaty glass. Edward wraps another arm around and slips his hand up to find a lace-covered breast. Instead of a caress, he finds the hard knot of a nipple and pinches and pulls, finally eliciting an audible gasp and garbled utterance from Bella's lips.

Driven by Bella's vocal pleasure, he presses her body flush with the pane, his lips tangled with her hair, his chest against her back, her ass flush with his pelvis, her body nearly lifted with the relentless force and rhythm of his fucking. Her soft, short moans are offered to the glass that her cheek is pressed against, higher in pitch with each thrust, coming gradually to a quiet crescendo. Edward can no longer hold back, and finally he lets himself go, holding Bella's hips and picking her slightly off the ground so that he can finish while he's buried as deeply as physically possible inside of her.

After a few shuddering breaths on both of their parts, Edward sets Bella back down. This time she is the one that slumps and holds herself up. She is relieved. He's guessed the game and he's a suitable lay. Possibilities open up before her. She has a good life.

Edward slips his dick from the tight warmth of Bella's sex. He pulls the condom from his half-hard dick and lets it drop into the nearby waste bin. Taking her hips into his hands for a second time, he turns guides Bella around to face him. Her wrists twist overhead, pulling the velvet drapes closed behind her as if to signal the end of an act. He admires how the deep blood red velvet of the curtains offsets her creamy skin and deep red nipples. Edward watches the rise and fall of her lace-covered breasts, and emboldened by her bondage, he pushes the undergarment upward, baring her breasts. He falls into Bella's chair and watches the woman strung before him. Her sex glistens. Her ribs belie deep breathing. Her lips are parted. He'd like them around his dick.

Then he remembers Bella's demand. This is not about his desire, he is tasked with deducing what _she_ would like.

Edward stands so that he's positioned directly in front of Bella. Her eyes meet his, daring him to act. He thinks perhaps she is hoping he will surprise her.

"You're really pretty. I just wanted to touch you."

Bella is struck by the soft, kind edge in Edward's voice. It's the voice he used with the waitress the first time they'd met in the bar. It's a voice filled with earnest good intention. Edward brings his hand to the tip of Bella's breast but does not make contact. He lets his palm drift lower until it hovers near her sex, virtually cupping. They trade breath. He takes a step backward. "Your move, Ms. Swan."

Edward falls into Bella's desk chair once more. His biceps are throbbing and his legs are weak. He thinks he may need to take up exercise on a more regular basis if he's planning on pursuing this arrangement. Incidentally, he is planning on pursuing this arrangement. This is what Edward Cullen wants. He knows it physically and he has come to terms with it mentally. He wants the ease of anonymity and the dirt of an illicit relationship. He's convinced that he's been shit for a husband, and that the only thing he might hope for is saving Angela's life.

Lost in his thoughts and the post coital haze of his fantasy come to life, Edward is shocked when Bella begins to easily unwind her hands from the ties that bind her. She smirks and rubs her wrists. "You need to better learn the ropes, Mr. Cullen," she chuckles as she pulls her bra back over her breasts.

Bella unbuttons her cufflinks and shrugs off her shirt as she strides past Edward clad only in a bra, stockings and stilettos. Edward swivels to watch her take a seat on the corner of the desk and cross her long legs. "Not bad, Mr. Cullen," Bella hums. "Now what were we playing for today?"

With the reality of their reversed roles thrown in his face, Edward grits his teeth. Bella's eyes twinkle. "Yes, I see that we remember now." She leans across the desk and watches Edward as he attempts not to feast his eyes on Bella's cleavage.

"Laurent?" she asks as she presses the intercom.

"_Ms Swan_?"

"Get Doctor Banner on the phone for me."

"_Yes, Ms. Swan._"

"Also, I need a new blouse, and bring in the trousers to go with my jacket. The zipper on the skirt needs repair."

"_Of course, Ms. Swan_."

"Who's Doctor Banner?" Edward asks.

Bella leans back on her hands and recrosses her legs. "If I smoked I'd want a cigarette. Thank you, Mr. Cullen. I needed this before leaving for D.C."

"D.C?"

"_I have Doctor Banner on line one, Ms. Swan,_" Laurent's voice informs them from the Intercom. Bella picks up a wireless handset instead of talking on speaker. She watches Edward as she talks, swinging the heel of her shoe.

"_Doctor Banner?... Yes, yes… No, I'm calling on behalf of one of my associates… His wife is quite ill… No, nothing like that. Stage four triple negative breast cancer._"

Edward is shocked to hear his wife's diagnosis roll off of Bella Swan's tongue.

"_I want to find the best care possible… Yes, a clinical trial perhaps. Who do you suggest?_"

There's a light knock on the door and Bella slips off the edge of the desk and strides toward the entryway.

"_The Mayo Clinic? Isn't that… yes, Arizona… that's what I thought. Nothing in town_?"

Edward watches as Bella opens the door for Laurent as if greeting her assistant in the nude were as commonplace and familiar as brushing her teeth.

"_Yes, I did say the absolute best… You know her personally?... No, that's not an obstacle… Thank you, Doctor Banner. Sorry, Peter. How's Mary_?"

Laurent hangs a garment bag on the coat hook and walks past Bella as she continues her conversation with Doctor Banner. Edward doesn't make eye contact with Bella's assistant but has the distinct impression he is being scrutinized as Laurent picks up the stray clothing littering the floor around him. Bella wanders back toward Edward and Laurent.

"_Thank you, Peter. I'll have Mr. Black call later for the details? Her name? Of course. Angela Cullen_."

Bella places the phone back in its cradle.

"I can still use the undergarments, Laurent," she mentions, sliding her bare bottom back onto the desk.

"Of course," Laurent mumbles, separating some white lace from the rest of the ruined clothing. Bella dangles her feet in front of her and Laurent goes down on one knee and slips the panties over her heels. Bella stops him at her knees.

"I can take it from here," she chuckles.

"Anything else?"

"Is Mr. Black here?"

"In the kitchen."

"Send him in."

Bella stands and shimmies and covers herself with what appears to be two ribbons of white lace connecting over her crotch. Laurent doesn't linger and Bella doesn't acknowledge his departure.

"There's a doctor at the Mayo Clinic in Scottsdale," she informs Edward. "Apparently she's the best breast cancer specialist on this side of the continent."

"Arizona?"

"You asked for the best. Now, if you'd like each visit paid for, you'll continue to play the game. Anticipate my needs."

"Arizona?" he asks again.

"Mr. Black will arrange everything. Just like this doctor, he is also the best at what he does."

"What exactly does he do?" Edward cannot help but ask.

"He makes sure I'm happy."

"Then he's shit at his job."

Bella is shocked into stillness by the undeniable truth of Edward's words. In the future she will choose her explanation of Jacob Black's job description with more care. He attends to her every need. He is devoted to her every whim. She says jump, he asks how high. He is the Gatsby to her Daisy.

"Bella?" Mr. Black asks from the open office doorway.

Bella reins herself in from asking Jacob Black to jump, but she cannot help but grin. "Jacob, we were just talking about you," she says, turning in the direction of her assistant.

Edward watches Mr. Black watching Bella Swan. He registers the pleasant shock on Mr. Black's face as he appreciates Bella's state of undress, followed quickly by displeasure when Mr. Black recalls Edward's presence.

"What is it?" Jacob Black asks, glancing back and forth between the unemployed man and his former boss. "Does he need to clean his dick again?"

"That's the least of it, Jacob. I need you to call Doctor Banner in the morning. He's arranging a consult for Mr. Cullen and his wife in Scottsdale. I need you to coordinate their transport and relay all pertinent numbers and contact information back to Mr. Cullen."

"Yeah, sure. Is that all?"

"I'd like Mr. Cullen in my box at the opera next week. See that he is properly attired."

Jacob Black smirks. He knows better than to take Bella's words at face value. "Anything else?"

"That's all for now, Jacob. I have a meeting to dress for. You're both excused."

Two sets of brown eyes turn expectantly toward Edward Cullen who is still collapsed in Bella's office chair. Edward remembers his fly, finds his strength and rights himself as he gets to his feet. Bella Swan retrieves Edward's suit jacket from the chair by the door and folds it neatly over her bare arm.

"Destitution suits you, Mr. Cullen. Nevertheless, the next time I request you wear your suit jacket I expect you to listen." Bella stands and holds out the jacket. Edward reluctantly makes his way to the door, sadly aware that this is his only way out. He lets Bella hold the jacket while he threads his arms through the sleeves. He feels the tips of Bella's tits rub intentionally against his back as she smoothes the material over his shoulders.

"Learn the ropes, Mr. Cullen," she whispers in his ear as she pats his ass and sends him on his way.

* * *

**A/N: SereneInNC and Obsmama help makes this fun and worthwhile for me - thank you both! My trike keeps me sane - even as they move on from fanfic and become real, legit authors and all. I'm so proud of the new published bicycle, even as I totter over here looking like a circus freak on this unicycle.**

**My unsolicited advice for the week: find the fun... get lost in the story... don't do it for the reviews, or the allure of fanfic fame, lol. Take it from me. I've been around the block and back again. You never feel as good as when you write that once in a lifetime little fic, or when you discover something that's just SO DAMN GOOD that you can't put it down even to sleep. Have a happy week & let's try to turn over a new leaf. Stranger things have happened.**

**I've fallen behind in my writing... best laid plans & all, right? I'll try my bext for next Friday, but I've got a date with The Pointer Sisters, lol.**

**Until next time, ~BDC**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: If you want, feel free to listen to the Habanera from _Carmen_ when the it begins in the chapter. The music goes along with Edward's actions.**

* * *

Ch. 8

Jacob Black leaves his BMW with the valet and casually makes his way through the Spanish-style garden that leads to one of the most exclusive haberdasheries in California. There is no signage outside what is rumored to have been Charlie Chaplin's dance studio, but anyone in the know within one thousand miles of this address finds J. Jenks when they are in the market for a one of a kind bespoke suit. The doors to the studio are heavy and wooden, and once pried open the air inside is cool and smells of mineral oil and cherry tobacco. Decades old exposed brickwork covers one wall, while the rest of the cavernous space is decorated in dark wood and leather. The floor is polished poured concrete and covered with Oriental rugs in tones of deep orange and burgundy. Leafy palms crowd at the corners and dapper manikins are artfully grouped in twos and threes.

Jacob sighs. He wants to take exception to the fact that he was bidden to accompany Edward Cullen, a failed mid-level executive, to this exclusive haunt. However, he has learned not to begrudge Isabella Swan in her carnal pursuits, and while he is not eager for the upcoming exchange, he is nevertheless determined to please his employer.

Meanwhile, with financial markets in a state of ruin, the high-end suit business has recently dried up and J. Jenks makes a point of greeting Jacob Black personally. He's primed with the knowledge that he will be in the employ of one of the most powerful financiers in the country, outfitting one of her boys. Indeed, he's always taken pride in making suits for SAF's managerial team and often assists young, aspiring executives with which cut might get them ahead and into the boardroom. For those sent by the CEO herself, those bound for the bedroom, he outfits exclusively for Ms. Swan's pleasure and judges his success by her return business. Mind you, he is desperate to ensure his continued success in this new post-apocalyptic business age.

A separate salesman takes Jacob's jacket and inquires whether he would like a cigar and a drink. When Jacob refuses both, he's offered either Columbian coffee or Perrier instead. Given a moment to reconsider, Jacob relents, opting for a scotch and soda. Isabella doesn't like her employees to drink on the job, but Jacob doesn't like Edward Cullen. Somehow, he feels the drink will level the playing field.

Since Mr. Cullen has made a regular habit of arriving late for his appointments, Jacob expects he will have time to review swatches and discuss cuts and finishing with Jenks at his leisure. But he barely has time to settle into a leather chair with a drink and a sample book when an anxious man in cheap sunglasses, a navy polo and slightly rumpled khakis walks tentatively through the door.

xXxXx

_"What is it about this one?"_

_"He tries too hard."_

xXxXx

Jacob cannot help but grimace. _He_'s been trying since he was twelve years old. He knows Isabella Swan better than anyone in the world and he understands her motivations thoroughly, however he cannot bring himself to understand why she wastes her time with Edward Cullen. Jacob is quite certain the man couldn't manipulate his way out of a paper bag. He finds the fidgety guy obstinate and relentlessly morose. Nevertheless, Jacob reminds himself that Edward Cullen has not been chosen as his paramour, so his opinion serves no purpose. He must do his job and let the union run it's course. Isabella will accept nothing less.

Edward Cullen glances around the opulent showroom, not quite certain he's found the right place until he spots Mr. Black, Isabella Swan's unsuccessful master of happiness, seated in a leather throne, wearing a dark suit and a scowl. Edward decides then and there that Mr. Black is no more successful at bringing himself happiness than he is Bella Swan. Each time the two men meet it appears that Mr. Black is more taciturn than the last. Edward finds a small amount of pleasure in the power he appears to hold over this man and he can't help but grin as he takes off his sunglasses.

"Mr. Black?" he asks.

"Mr. Cullen." Jacob grumbles, setting down his drink. He stands but does not offer his hand.

"This is the gentleman we'll be working with?" Jenks asks, scrutinizing and surveying with what he hopes is an inviting air. He's relieved, having worked with far worse raw material and eager to effect a transformation that will please. "Right over here, Mr. Cullen! Can we get you a drink, my boy?"

"Um, I'm here for -"

"He knows why you're here, Mr. Cullen," Jacob Black interrupts with an exasperated sigh. "No need for gory details."

Edward grits his teeth. Jenks wraps an arm around Edward Cullen's shoulders ignoring the ignominy, leading him toward a fitting room in the rear. "What do you like in a suit?" he asks. No matter the answer he plans to accentuate the man's broad shoulders and give him more of an upper body presence – broadening the chest as well.

"Something dark… that fits?" Edward offers.

Jenks chuckles and Jacob rolls his eyes, following the procession with his glass in hand.

xXxXx

Edward's measurements are taken in a swift and efficient manner by the overly complimentary Jenks, a detail that leaves Jacob Black more sullen with each passing moment. He cannot help but wonder if this personal attention is by Isabella's express design. (It is not). He wonders if Isabella is bringing Edward to _Carmen_ to make a statement, or out of sheer coincidence. (It is a coincidence that Isabella savors). He mentally ticks through each of his recent interactions with Isabella and his stomach roils. Lately he has been reduced to Edward Cullen's escort, while he is a much more significant part of his employer's life.

Jacob attempts to take solace in his scotch as he watches the measure of a man. He coolly compares inches and intentions. While Jenks sees centimeters and yards, Jacob Black adds up the days and weeks until he can move on with his life.

"Wonderful, Edward. You'll look simply scrumptious on Saturday. I'll see to the detailing personally... the darkest shade of blue to bring out those eyes... something very modern, slim cut. Wait until you see what I have planned for the lining."

Edward smiles outright as the small man leaves the fitting room at a jog. He isn't used to being fawned over and he feels awkward, yet oddly important.

"Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Cullen," Jacob grumbles from the corner, reminding Edward that he's being watched.

"Why are you here again?" Edward asks, stepping down from his pedestal.

"I do what I'm told. Remember _that_ rule and you might even earn yourself a month or two."

"Why? So I can end up like you?"

Edward smirks and takes a seat and searches for his shoes. Jacob laughs, but Edward detects anxiety behind the man's bravado. After years attending to Angela, he is attuned to anxiety.

"You and I are nothing alike, Mr. Cullen. I'll be here long after you're just an unpleasant memory."

"Making her happy?"

Edward's question is tongue and cheek of course, but Jacob misses the sarcasm. Edward has unwittingly stumbled onto Jacob's deepest desire: to remain Isabella Swan's source of satisfaction long after the others have been forgotten.

"What is she to you?" Edward wonders aloud.

"She's my employer, and you'll watch your tone."

"No, that's not it at all. You're not in this just for money."

Jacob is struck by the quiet sincerity of Edward's voice. It offers his first inkling that the man is more than a well-intentioned, hypocritical failure. Edward's insight carries with it warmth and heart. This is not necessarily a pleasant discovery, and Jacob feels the need to bring the man down a peg.

"Neither are you, Mr. Cullen. Don't fool yourself. You're no saint. No one is in it just for the money. That's the excuse, but you're in it for the woman. We're in it for… well, you know what she's like."

"I think I do." Edward Cullen is convinced that Isabella Swan is _like_ a narcissistic sociopath, but he's uncertain how that makes a lapdog of the man on the other side of the sitting room.

"Don't look so smug, Mr. Cullen. There's only one possible outcome for you. She'll grow tired. She always does. Your best option is to get what you can while you can. Figure out what you want, because the clock started ticking the minute she wet your dick."

"I've told her what I want."

Jacob pulls an envelope from his jacket pocket and leans it against the glass of scotch on the table at his side. He feels quite certain that Edward could do better than a doctor's appointment in Scottsdale, Arizona, but that is further proof of the man's incompetence and a clue as to why he's failed at life.

"About what you want: a car will be at your house at seven-thirty Saturday evening. You'll arrive at the Pavilion just ahead of _her_ car. Wait at the curb to escort her inside. The rest of the evening is in how you play it, Mr. Cullen. Your reward is this envelope. There are airline tickets, a hotel reservation, and your wife's clinic schedule for this coming Monday."

Edward cannot take his eyes off the envelope. Its contents contain his worth as a human being. They contain his wife's last best hope. "You know that what you're participating in is immoral and insane, don't you?" he asks Mr. Black.

Jacob tucks the envelope back into his pocket, downs the last of his scotch and stands. "Who are you to talk, Mr. Cullen?"

xXxXx

Edward returns to Jenks later that week for a final fitting and finds that he enjoys the comfort of a custom suit. It is not only the tailor's platform that adds height to his already lofty stature, but the sense of ease and confidence that comes with a complimentary cut and adequate arm room. He gains an inch just from the admiration he sees reflected in J. Jenks' eyes and the friendly nods from the other attendants in the studio. It takes every shred of his practical will not to simply wear it home, clad in new clothing and armed with new meaning.

Furthermore, he feels a new sense of purpose at home that week as he helps to pack for the trip to Scottsdale. He is proud that he will bring Angela to one of the finest authorities in breast cancer for an evaluation. He makes certain she is not only packed, but also armed with medications, inhalers, nebulizers, wound care supplies, and stacks of medical records. Once again he falls into the role he has carved out for himself in this world: he is saving his wife. He is within an inch of fixing the situation as much as is humanly possible.

"I'm going to make this okay," he murmurs as he gives Angela her final dose of medication one night.

"I don't know."

"_I_ know. I know it, Angie," he insists with a kiss to the forehead.

Angela is relieved that Edward's take-charge attitude has returned. It was the character trait that convinced her to marry him and the one she feared she'd drained from his soul. She muses that maybe now that she is leaving this world he is gaining back what she'd taken. With this thought she is almost able to smile.

Edward interprets the light he sees in his wife's face as evidence that he is pursuing the right course of action and he works doubly hard to make sure that the trip will, in fact, take place. He needs to make certain to give Isabella Swan what she might want. This mental leap from his wife to his John, or Jane as the case might be, is made with heretofore unheard of ease. Edward is armed with a worthy excuse a sincere wish… and a newly realized sense of licentious control.

Stacks of unpaid bills and past due statements are swept aside for the time being as Edward's laptop takes center stage on his desk. He spends the long hours after Angela is asleep for the night no longer juggling finances, but visiting websites that leave his cheeks red, his mind reeling and his conscience stubbornly in question. Nevertheless, he is determined not to fail at the task at hand and with Google and bits of string as his guide he works far harder than he had when he was eight and learning the Boy Scouts Six.

When he needs a break, his inquiries turn more personal and he types Isabella Swan's name into the search engine. He is gifted with layer upon layer of information: from her Wikipedia page to news of her most recent dealings in Washington, D.C. on the very afternoon that Edward last visited her office. If he's learned one thing about his former employer it is that she possesses a story that would be told between the lines, so Edward studies carefully, searching for the tie that will bind rather than the key to her heart.

xXxXx

Edward had called on his sister Rose and her husband to watch Angela while he was at the opera, but on Saturday evening he opens his front door to find his mother on the doorstep instead. Edward's stomach turns and his palms go clammy. He's never wanted to shout at his sister for her lack of support more than he does in this moment. Meanwhile, Esme Cullen's face glows with pride, unexpectedly dazzled by her son's appearance. She is certain Edward looks as handsome as her husband ever did in his youth, yet more refined than Carlisle could ever dream of becoming.

Edward finds it difficult to find his voice or to look his mother in the eye.

"Edward, Son, you just took my breath away!"

Esme holds out her arms and Edward has no choice but to acquiesce to a hug. He avoids eye contact and as he searches for something sincere to say to his mother.

"This is a work function?" Esme asks as she releases her hold on her son and pulls him into the house with her.

Uncertain how to answer his mother without guilt, Edward distracts himself with the contents of his pockets. He searches as if he's forgotten something. He has not, of course. He has his wallet, cell phone, and a condom in his inside jacket pocket. Four long strips of red silk are carefully folded inside the side pocket in his trousers.

"Edward?"

"Oh, sorry, Mom."

"Are you alright?"

Esme's question is such a loaded one that Edward feels the sudden urge to collapse at his mother's feet and beg for forgiveness. He does not, of course. Instead, he tries on a stiff smile. "I don't know, Mom."

"Is there something riding on this event?"

"Too much."

"Edward, Honey." Esme takes Edward's hesitant hands in hers. "My God, look at me, Son. Take a deep breath. You're one of the hardest workers I know and you are good at what you do. Everything is going to be fine here at home. Go and have a good time. There's no one on the planet that deserves to forget everything for a few hours more than you."

A black sedan pulls into the driveway alleviating Edward's need to respond. Instead, he finds Angela in the bedroom and leaves her with a kiss and a disingenuous promise that everything is settled for their flight the following afternoon.

xXxXx

The Dorothy Chandler Pavilion is a study in mid-twentieth century architecture, but the blazing lights glowing from within cast a golden aura on the fountains that decorate the square, creating a sense of grandeur far greater than the box-like building might otherwise inspire. The crowd is noticeably sparse this evening since those with the extra cash for opera seats are investing in gold futures or stashing their funds in the Caymans these days. The couples that sweep by take little notice of the solitary man in the well-fitting suit. Likewise, Edward doesn't much notice the ebb in the opera crowd. He's watching a black limousine roll to a stop in front of him and feels as though his heart is beating in his throat and his conscience has called it quits.

He clutches at the strips of silk in his pocket and reminds himself to stand tall. Dressed to the nines, he is indistinguishable from the rest of the crowd. He belongs. He knows what needs to be done. He is prepared... and can't help but chuckle at his old Boy Scouts motto.

He finds he is not prepared, however, for the long, bare legs that emerge from the limousine, or the graceful curves of a body draped in figure-flattering red silk - cut sky high and dipping jaw-droppingly low. Edward catches his breath, quietly stunned by the slender, radiant woman who smiles brightly as she takes the hand her driver offers to help her from the car. The diamonds around her throat and dangling from her ears sparkle in the light from the concert hall. A warm breeze blows through her loose wavy hair and makes her gown ripple around her frame. Red fabric rustling against milky white skin and Edward sees right through Isabella Swan. He understands the inspiration for her choice of dress - the same inspiration for the scraps of red he's stashed out of sight - and he is borne on a wave of confidence. Clutching the silk strands in his pocket he strides toward his former employer and offers his hand.

"Ms. Swan."

"Mr. Cullen."

Isabella is likewise pleased with Edward's appearance and lets herself smile as she takes him in from head to toe. Of course, she has all but guaranteed she would be satisfied. Nevertheless, a suit does not make a man, and Edward fills the fabric well and finishes it off with touches like artfully unruly hair, a close shave and shined shoes. He looks impeccable. So does she. They make an exquisite couple.

Isabella offers her arm, but Edward wraps an arm around her waist instead.

"I expect you to behave, Mr. Cullen. You must conduct yourself with decorum this evening."

"Is that what you'd like?" His lips brush against Isabella's ear as he asks and she shivers.

"What I'd like? That's not for me to tell, but for you to guess. Of course, one wrong move in public could jeopardize the rest of your weekend plans."

After Edward's week of online research, he is almost certain he can please Isabella Swan. Her words don't anger, but instead present a challenge he feels he can meet.

After several days of deep deliberation, Edward is so attuned to Isabella's presence and her carnal desires, not to mention her resume and recent exploits, that he expects all heads to turn as she walks by. However, financiers are not movie stars and while they control the world, they manage to do so in popular anonymity. Bella is granted no more than a few sidelong glances from admiring men, but her stature and importance seem lost on all in attendance besides Edward Cullen. He feels a sincere need not to let her significance be overlooked.

"I admired the way you handled Washington."

Bella raises her eyebrows. "You noticed?"

"You fucked me five hours before you met the President. I paid attention."

"To be clear, _you_ fucked _me_, and you fucked me well."

Edward grins. Isabella's hand brushes against Edward's hip. The sparse crowd becomes something of a crush as patrons merge together underneath tremendous crystal chandeliers. He feels the swell of her breast against his chest. He holds the sweep of her hip in the palm of his hand.

"Jacob Black doesn't like me," Edward muses.

"You don't need to mind Jacob Black. Do you know _Carmen_, Mr. Cullen?"

The opera is one of the many things Edward studied over the past week, yet he plays dumb.

"Is this the one where the manipulative bitch takes advantage of an unsuspecting soldier? Yes, I think I know it. My younger sister studies music."

"Why is a woman a bitch when she gets what she wants?"

Edward does not look at Bella as he replies. "Perhaps when the bitch destroys lives to get what she wants, then that name is the one that fits the best."

"Men make their own decisions, Mr. Cullen, yet they are quick to blame the outcome on the fairer sex. Please tell me, whose life is destroyed in this story?"

"The soldier. Jose, right?"

"Just like a man," she scoffs. "You're wrong, of course. _Carmen_, or the bitch as you call her is the one that dies in the end."

xXxXx

Edward and Isabella arrive at her box in the first row of a private balcony just as the lights are dimming and the orchestra is queuing. Edward's heart beats in double time as Isabella takes her seat, crosses her legs and looks up at him expectantly. If he is to act, it has to be quickly and it has to be now. It has to be to the resounding applause for the conductor and to the first notes of the strident overture.

Falling to one knee as if to tie his shoe, Edward slips one of the strips of crimson silk from his pocket. He's practiced in the dark and with chair legs, but never with a human being that held his fate in her hands, or with a one hundred-piece orchestra playing just to his backside.

Quickly, before he can think twice and before it begins to look like he is lurking on the ground, he grasps Isabella's ankle, pulls it to the side and ties and tethers it in a quick rope shackle. Reaching across, he repeats his actions with her other ankle and another strip of silk. Edward and Isabella are both proud of his performance as the overture builds to a crescendo, the curtains open and Edward takes his seat.

From the corner of his eyes Edward sees Bella flex her thighs, testing the ropes. He is certain that this time she is not playing when she cannot ease her way out of the bindings. He watches with internal glee as the corners of Isabella's mouth twitch. Her eyes flicker in the light from the scene unfolding below and Edward would desperately like to know what is going on behind them.

Behind those big, brown eyes Bella is pleasantly surprised. She'd expected a quick fuck in a back hallway once she was able to get Edward angry enough to make a move. However, the situation has shifted and Edward Cullen is beginning to prove himself more adept than she'd imagined.

"I think you'll find I'm a pretty quick study," Edward whispers in Isabella's ear, coming close enough to her thoughts that he startles her. He reaches across her body and presses her wrist against the armrest. Silk is wound and tied in a shackle in record time.

Isabella clasps Edward's lapel with her free hand. "Are you very certain about this, Mr. Cullen?"

"I'm guessing you have a bat signal to get Mr. Black over here if I'm off on this hunch, but yeah, I'm pretty certain."

He has no trouble prying Isabella's hand from his jacket and he presses her wrist against the armrest and goes to work with his last strip of silk. Edward sits back and smiles. He has effectively imprisoned Isabella Swan, CEO of SAF Global, in her seat with her hands immobilized and her legs spread to the air and the orchestra.

Thrilled and strapped into her preferred position, Isabella gamely pulls against her tethers, once again testing her bindings. Edward Cullen has indeed learned his ropes. Bella's heart pounds as the air vibrates with Bizet's music. Cool silk falls away from a long leg and an errant strand of hair falls across her face. Edward is suddenly the one walking the line, and he looks dapper and confident as he does so. Overly pleased, Bella takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, savors the moment and waits.

Below her a lover is impatient and unwittingly determines her destiny.

And Isabella waits.

An army regiment regards cigarette girls and an unsuspecting soldier's fate is sealed.

And she waits.

Isabella glances at Edward, but he is on the edge of his seat, engrossed in the opera playing out before his eyes instead of regarding her. He leans forward and studies the action on the stage. Isabella cannot lean. She cannot brush the hair from her face or cover her thigh. She will not say his name. She cannot. He must come to her.

Edward chuckles along with the rest of the audience at the story unfolding before them. Bella does not laugh, nor does she enjoy the first scene of the opera. Instead, silent fury flows through her veins turning Bella's cheeks pink and her palms sweaty. Carmen appears on the stage below and the sounds from the orchestra grow as anxious and angry as Isabella Swan. If Bella's ties were loosened she would slap Edward Cullen across the face. She would destroy him for her humiliation. She would disgrace him in front of his family and his friends.

Just as Isabella's fury is poised to consume her from within, the first lilting strains of Carmen's Habanera pierce the air like a hot knife and Edward turns his attention back to his former employer. Isabella watches him look her over from head to toe; from her shackled ankles, to her exposed thigh, heaving chest, stray hair and hot temper. He licks his lips and Bella's emotions are a tangle of rage and desire.

Edward slowly slips back in his seat and rests his hand over Bella's on the armrest. He runs his fingers over hers. His trousers rub against her bare leg.

"Do you want me to touch you?" he asks as he leans close. "I think you do."

Music swells and Isabella's heart skips a beat. She hasn't felt this vulnerable in many years, a fact that brings with it palpitations and voluptuous uncertainty. Edward's hand slips from the armrest to Bella's exposed thigh and fingertips skim along her skin, gently rubbing back and forth.

"I think I got that part right. Would you agree, Ms. Swan?"

The Habanera surges again and there's a chance that if Isabella weren't bound she would have jumped in her seat. The loose strand of hair hangs across her nose, but the only thing she is aware of is Edward's hands and her bindings.

"You don't say?" Edward asks.

"Watch yourself, Mr. Cullen," she murmurs, doing her best to keep her voice cooler than her blood.

"Watch my hand as I touch you? Certainly, Ms. Swan. If you say so."

Edward's hand moves to Isabella's inner thigh, caressing, drifting higher. The drape-like fabric is easily pushed aside, slipping out of the way like a gentle red tide. Edward follows Isabella's unwitting instructions and enjoys the slow reveal of alabaster skin. He enjoys the rise and fall of Bella's chest and the gasp that erupts from her parted lips when he ventures higher.

"You wanted me here, right?" he asks as his fingers barely whisper against her sex. "_In_ here?"

When Bella doesn't offer a snappy reply, Edward eases more fabric out of the way; leaving both thighs uncovered, and places a hand on one of her bare knees instead.

"Funny, I was sure I knew what you wanted," he chuckles.

Bella watches Carmen seduce Jose with words of caution and the voice of a siren. The sultry melody winds around her limbs along with the silk and Edward's hand burns where it lies.

"Please?"

The word escapes her mouth almost of it's own accord and it is the only syllable she has to utter. With one deft movement his hand is back where it should be, his lips are against her ear, and both offer just the lightest hint of his presence. Whispered promises and deft fingers are interwoven with French lyrics dripping with the prospect of sensual pleasure. The music builds slowly and so do Edward's movements: his tongue joins his lips behind her ear, his fingers probe and rub and circle close to where Isabella would like them, but never hitting home. His shoulder brushes against a bare arm, the sleeve of his jackets creates unintentional friction, and Isabella's skin is on fire, exposed, throbbing, underneath only the cover of darkness and thin layers of silk.

"I'm not certain I know how to please you. With force? With will? With a play at power?"

Edward nips at Bella's earlobe and his finger finally dips. Bella gasps. The music continues and the thousands present all around them are unaware.

Driven by his own actions, Edward forgets the game. He knows only what he wants in this moment and he nips and sucks and explores more freely: along legs, along the deep "V" of her gown, slipping beneath the edges and rejoicing at the swell of her décolletage. Bella closes her eyes, letting the music and the man take over, gladly bequeathing minutes of her life to give in and let go. She is proud that her own will and determination have provided her with a sweet escape, a moment of perfection, lips and hands and filthy pleasure in a refined disguise. A smile hovers at her glistening lips and she aches with delight.

All too soon, the Habanera is over, the silk of her gown is swept over her thighs, and Edward's touch disappears. Isabella opens her eyes to find the man once again focused on the actions on the stage as if it had all been a wish instead of reality. Her smile grows and she suppresses laughter. He's clearly won, but she is not finished.

The first act draws to a close, and as Jose unties Carmen's wrists on the stage Edward deftly releases first Isabella's wrists and then stoops to free her ankles. Once liberated, Isabella stands and peers down at the handsome man crouching at her feet. She is far from sated, yet incredibly satisfied.

"Come with me, Mr. Cullen."

"Excuse me?"

"I've had enough."

"But -"

"You'll rise and take my hand without argument. _Now_."

Edward does as he is bidden and leads Isabella from the box, down the aisle and out into the hall. The sudden light is shocking and Isabella's hand on his ass is unexpected.

"Lead me to the car, Mr. Cullen. I've given the bat signal, as you call it. Jacob Black and I are taking you for a ride."

* * *

**A/N: Thanks to all of you for waiting for this one. Thanks to SereneInNC & Obsmama for rocking my world. And thanks to SCOTUS for making this country a little more equal for us this July 4th. **

**Until next time, ~BDC**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: All mistakes in this chapter are totally mine. **

* * *

Ch. 9

Edward leads Isabella out into the cool spring twilight, guiding her with a hand held firmly on the small of her back. The spray from the fountain chills his skin but cannot quell the mounting unease in his gut. With each step he is putting space between himself and the scene he'd prepared himself for: one with an audience, darkness and the need for silence. Out in the night air Edward feels vulnerable and his limbs feel too loose. His mind ranges through an innumerable list of possible scenarios that might present themselves. With the change of scenery four bits of silk and medical necessity seem grossly inadequate for the task at hand.

Ahead of them a black limousine pulls up to the curb. The car that Edward arrived in is nowhere in sight.

"We're going together this time?" Edward asks.

The smirk on Isabella's face serves as his only reply.

Edward searches for solace in the towering city skyline, a vision he's often sought to calm his nerves and catch his breath. Sturdy and strong, the buildings of Los Angeles withstand scorching sun and a shaking earth. At night, when the world goes to sleep they stand sentinel, taking care. Tonight the sky behind the dark monoliths glows in violet and orange and gulls swoop and dive playing in the breeze. Tonight the dying rays of the sun glint and play on the shining surfaces, nearly obscuring the glowing digital numbers telling the time on the building across the street. A lump forms in Edward's throat. It's past the hour for his wife's evening medication. He'd felt so uncomfortable in his mother's presence that he'd neglected to discuss Angela's schedule. His hand itches for his cell phone.

"That was quite a performance," Bella murmurs.

"Maybe you should have stayed inside then."

"I thought I'd prefer the second act in private, Mr. Cullen," she whispers in his ear. She cannot help but let her lips brush and then let her eyes linger on Edward's fingers.

In turn, Edward forgets his phone, his hand suddenly itching for a different form of contact. He grips Isabella's waist and attempts to channel his intentions. He is here to guess Isabella's needs and they seem to fall somewhere between the extremes of omnipotence and powerlessness, always involving frustration and anger. In the past Isabella had been the one to anger Edward and it had left him in her good graces. This time, with tables turned, she likewise seems pleased. He knows that he must take control of the situation, but anger is exhausting and Edward doesn't know if he can mount that emotion once more.

As they arrive at the waiting car, Edward recognizes Isabella's assistant holding open the back door, dressed as a chauffeur.

"He drives you around, too?"

"I use Jacob in any circumstance when I need someone discrete and trustworthy."

"I don't know. I think he seems kind of unprofessional," Edward remarks as Jacob glowers at him from underneath the brim of his hat. He would more likely describe Jacob Black as jealous and bitter – emotions that do not necessarily proceed to trust.

"He's my friend, Mr. Cullen."

Isabella's voice is quiet and small. She peers up at Edward with an expression bordering on temerity, and instead of a monster, Edward sees her for the pretty woman she is. She is a woman with a good job, a head for finance and a thorough knowledge of Carmen. She is a woman in a stunning dress that he is leading to a waiting limousine. She is a beautiful woman that would like to spend time alone with him. She has a friend.

Isabella squeezes Edward's hand before she leaves his side to whisper in Jacob Black's ear. He notices the way she gently grasps Jacob's wrist. He watches her plump, red lips moving against Jacob's earlobe and notes her growing grin and sparkling eyes. Jacob shakes his head and folds his fingers around Isabella's hand in a gesture more familiar than intimate. The deep notes of his reply are lost to the whir of traffic, but whatever he says makes Isabella giggle – a sound that dances with the splash of the fountain and echoes through the square. Despite the fact that Jacob and Isabella are the two most immoral individuals he has ever had the displeasure of meeting, Edward is gripped with jealousy as he watches the scene before him. He would like support in the confidence of a friend.

With a chuckle, Jacob rolls his eyes and steps between Edward and Isabella, shielding her with his body and the door of the limousine. A few more quiet words are exchanged between the two, and with a zip, bare shoulders and a puddle of red silk, Isabella disappears into the back of the car. Jacob stoops and hangs the empty gown over his arm and eyes Edward Cullen.

"I'll need your jacket, wallet and cell phone, Mr. Cullen."

Edward peers between Jacob, the dress and the open car door.

"Don't pretend this is a difficult decision," he huffs.

Edward takes a deep breath and begins the process he detests. All forms of personal security relinquished, he spreads his legs for the inevitable pat down.

"You do this for all your friends?" Edward asks with Jacob's hands on his upper thighs.

"You'll keep your glib comments to yourself, Mr. Cullen, or I'll put an end to this right now. No envelope for you."

Edward recalls the gasps and sighs from the opera box. He recalls spread thighs and damp heat. He recalls the soft look and the squeezed hand. He takes confidence in the dress draped over Jacob's arm. "She might call you a friend, Mr. Black, but I don't think your opinion could get between me and the back of this car right now." He slips into the waiting car and pulls the door shut behind him.

xXxXx

Isabella Swan sits on the far side of the seat with her back to the door so that she can watch Edward as he climbs into the car. She appreciates every inch of the man that presents himself, from his long legs, to his arms in their crisp shirtsleeves, to his broad chest. Jenks has outdone himself and the man before her looks tall, fit and stylish. His garments beg to be shed slowly and in better lighting. She detects an air of determination in the set of Edward's jaw and the steadiness of his gaze. Her body alights, pleasantly on fire in his presence.

While Edward isn't surprised to find Isabella wearing nothing but black heels, a sparkly necklace and a sinister grin, he is nevertheless uncomfortable and takes solace in the inches that lay between them. He is uncertain whether he is expected to immediately pounce or to metaphorically circle and spar. He peers around the small space, looking for inspiration as the limousine's engine purrs to life and they pull into traffic.

Isabella watches as Edward leans his elbows on his knees, his hands tented together, obviously contemplating his next move. Like a teacher admiring the way a student might work at long division, she adores his determination when faced with a new task. She relishes the return of control that her own nudity has granted her and leans back, stretches her arms wide, lounging and on display.

"Where are we going?" Edward asks.

"I'm taking you on a circuitous journey home, Mr. Cullen."

"And this? Now?" he asks. "As Mr. Black drives?"

"When we're together there will always be someone just within earshot, behind a curtain or behind a wheel. You should know that by now."

"You're kind of sick that way."

"I'm overly cautious."

"You think?" he asks, looking Isabella over from red-polished toenails to the tips of her pert breasts.

Isabella slowly shrugs, enjoying Edward's scrutiny. "Without risk there is no reward."

Edward can't help but smile. "And I'm the reward?"

"You're clearly the risk."

"Like daring me to act at the opera?"

"A risk."

"And fucking me in your office?"

"A risk."

"And delaying your flight to D.C?"

"You're catching on."

Edward leans forward. "Then what risk is this? Two adults in a private car, one beholden to please the other. This isn't the same. It would have been riskier to let me fuck you in a stairwell."

Color rises on Isabella's cheeks and she grits her teeth. "Let's not belabor the point, Mr. Cullen."

Isabella knows that she is presenting Edward Cullen with a dare. She's bared herself and locked the two of them together. She's asked him to intuit what she wants even as that line is shifting like it was drawn in the desert sands. She wants too many things from this man. She delights in his dominant desperation, but there have been other glimmers of something softer that she hasn't deserved. She wonders if he might try to hold and caress. She wonders if she would allow such a thing. And if she did, would she still let him claim his reward? The fact that Bella does not know the answers to any of these questions makes her stomach turn and her nerves fire. It raises the stakes and heightens her senses.

"I don't expect you think we're here to talk risk analysis," she continues. "I believe you know my preferences by now."

"Your preferences?" Edward asks. "I think you _prefer_ to have me inside you and to make me feel like shit. I think you _prefer_ the feel of vulnerability, but you can't actually give in and really experience it. You need power more than you need anything or anyone else. You even hold power over your friend up there. This ride is a way to fuck us both. Why would you do this?"

Isabella grins. "Do what, Mr. Cullen? Watch you? Desire you? Fuck you? Drive you home?"

"Seriously, why do you do this to people?"

"Why not?"

Edward sits back in his seat. So many rational and ethical answers present themselves to that he cannot calmly explain the fabric of moral society to the naked woman across from him. It is as if these reasons simply do not exist inside the small space of the limousine. They do not exist between Isabella Swan and her friend Jacob Black. Edward understands that he has willfully wandered into another reality where the rules of physics and philanthropy do not hold. Unease works its way underneath his skin and he feels as if he might choke on unholy, recycled air.

Isabella's quiet voice catches him off guard. "I need to understand the market in order to do my job well. Can you tell me what the market is made up of, Mr. Cullen?"

"Dollars?" he guesses.

She shakes her head as if her student has offered an idiotic answer. "It's made up of people. I need to understand what people will do when they are threatened or when they are overjoyed. For my job I must understand people en mass. I must guess the predictable ways in which they act and react. For my pleasure, however, I like to examine people in a more intimate setting." Isabella lets her eyes linger on Edward's crotch.

"Then I'm just attached to a dick. I'm part of a game."

Isabella is pleased that Edward has said these words out loud. They serve as a reminder. She does not casually discuss her life's motivations with her games. She does not secretly, wistfully hope that they will disregard her intentions and use her as they see fit. She does not yearn for their tender affection. She does not want these things from Edward Cullen. He is a diversion. He plays a role that she has designed to serve them both.

"Without me you and your dick would simply be unemployed, you know."

"I'm still unemployed, Ms. Swan."

"So many possibilities have opened themselves up before you, though. Scottsdale, a cure for your wife, a roof over your head... And these are fairly insignificant compared to what you could aspire to."

"My wife is not insignificant," Edward growls.

Isabella grasps the edge of the leather seat and leans forward. "Your wife, your wife, your wife. _Angela Cullen_. I'm tired of this trigger."

Edward's reaction is swift and uninhibited. He lunges across the small space, grabs Isabella's wrist and one of the silk strips and quicker and tighter than he would have ever planned, fastens the cloth to the handle above the door. He pushes her body aside, sliding her along the seat, tightening the rope and pulling at her arm.

"And I'm fucking tired of you! I'm tired of your measured remarks and your stupid act. I'm tired of all of your shit."

"You are not tired of me," she hisses. "You're just getting started. You want me, Mr. Cullen. You want to punish me and you love me all at the same time."

Edward doesn't listen. He's focused on tying up Isabella's other wrist in the same manner, so that her arms are spread wide and she is seated in the center of the back seat. Edward kneels on the floor before her, catching his breath, surveying his work. Isabella Swan is awful and beautiful. Her eyes twinkle, her cheeks are flushed and her chest is heaving.

Her voice is calm. "I know how much you like my breasts. You look at them whenever you have the chance."

Edward loosens his necktie.

"Tell me, whose are better? Mine or Angela's?"

Edward's heart leaps into his throat. "Shut up."

"Whose are better?"

"Shut. The fuck. Up."

"Tell me, Mr. Cullen!"

And with a handful of hair grasped in a clenched fist and another slip of silk tied tighter than he'd planned, Isabella is silenced, lips parted by blood red. Her eyes are wide. He can see the rapid fire beating of her heart through her chest. He grips her hair in his fist and pulls her face to his.

"No more talking about my wife, do you hear me?"

Isabella glares, but makes no move to show that she understands.

"Agree now or so help me, I'm walking away." When he gets no response he tightens his hold and shakes her head. "Agree, goddammit!"

Isabella nods keeping her eyes trained on Edward's face.

"You want me to fuck you? You want this?" Edward asks as he forces her thighs apart and plunges two fingers deep between her legs. Isabella gasps and Edward brings his face within a breath of hers. He curls his fingers anchoring his hand inside of her.

"Angry sex is boring, Ms. Swan. Don't you have any other bright ideas in that genius head of yours? I have enough shit to deal with without you baiting me over and over again. You want a fuck?" He twists his fingers with each question. "You want it rough? You want me in the driver's seat? Then give me a fucking break and let me make the fucking decisions."

Bella's breathing is labored and Edward feels suddenly guilty and loosens his hold on her hair. He removes his hand and traces her parted lips with his fingertips.

"I'll make the trade. I want what you're offering. But if you belittle my wife again I'll walk away. Are we clear?"

Bella gazes steadily into Edward's eyes and slowly nods her head. She strains at her silken ties, pulling closer.

"People don't need to be angry to fuck, you know? If we did it back at the concert hall it would have been fun and sneaky; it wouldn't have been angry."

Bella narrows her eyes.

"Okay, I made you a little angry. But you'd have gotten over it. Right?" Edward, of course, gets no response and he can't help but smirk. "I like it when you can't talk."

He shuffles backward until he is sitting on the far side of the limousine and takes stock in the scene before him. He hadn't planned to have Isabella Swan bound, gagged and naked, but he is quite pleased with his work. After all, this is the woman that wrapped the country's financiers around her little finger. This is the woman that fired five thousand workers in order to turn a profit. This is the woman that uses human beings like lap dogs.

This is the pretty woman that gazed into his eyes and squeezed his hand, who was shy when she admitted that she had a friend. As tempting as it might be, Edward cannot be cruel.

Isabella watches Edward unassumingly disrobe with intense anticipation. She can hardly wait to see what will come next. Even better, she is not certain Edward knows, either. The opera was a study in Edward's aptitude, but by moving things to the limousine she's created a new study of his nature.

When Edward glances across the small space Isabella involuntarily shudders. His anxious gaze caught on the security monitors was what first piqued her interest in the man, and his aptitude and ingenuity are what held it. His faltering performance at work sealed his fate and set her plan in motion. She can't believe her luck that she found him.

Edward leaves on his boxer briefs, tucks a condom packet in his waistband and ducks and shuffles to Isabella's side of the car. Settling himself before her he takes a deep breath.

"You looked really gorgeous tonight. I felt kind of lucky when I forgot why I was with you. For a second or two it was almost normal… Do your arms hurt?"

The warmth of Edward's voice raises goose bumps on Isabella's skin. She can hardly catch her breath. She shakes her head.

"Let me know if it hurts, okay?"

Isabella blinks and holds her breath while her body burns. It's as if she were flailed, set on fire and put on display. She is abused, embarrassed and aroused.

Edward takes a nipple between his fingers, squeezes, rolls, pinches and pulls while he studies Isabella's eyes for signs of pleasure or pain, uncertain of how much torture a nipple can take. With another markedly harsher pinch, Isabella gasps as pain shoots from her nipple to a spot directly between her thighs. Edward bites his lip and loosens his hold, excited beyond expectation. He continues his one-sided torture and ducks his head, ready to finally indulge himself. Taking her other pert nipple between his lips, Edward gratefully licks and sucks, delighting in the soft, firm flesh of her breast, teasing her tits, taking hold with his hand and worshipping her anatomy like he'd wanted to when he first laid eyes on her bare chest. To his delight, Isabella whimpers and presses her body against him.

When he fears he's let this go on for too long he takes a break and chances a glance upward. Isabella's eyes are trained on them, her lids limpid and lowered, her cheeks pink, her jaw slack.

With an extra hard pinch and tug he decides to let her know his thoughts on the matter. "You were right. I think these are kind of awesome." With his free hand he gently parts her thighs, investigating further. "And you like that I like them. That's pretty convenient."

Edward presses Bella's thighs together again, leaving her wet and wanting. He can think of no graceful way to move from this moment to intercourse given the fact that he's tied and immobilized Isabella, so he slides onto the seat next to her, leaning his elbows on his hands. His leg brushes against her smooth skin and it's like hot coals and dry ice burn simultaneously where their limbs meet. Isabella's breathing quickens and Edward is drowning in desire. This is a feeling he thought was gone forever. This is a feeling he'd always thought he'd experienced when he touched Angela. This is a feeling he covets and wants for himself always. This is a feeling he's always deserved.

And grace be damned, Edward slips behind Isabella, lifting her, letting her ass run against the length of his dick, settling her firmly against himself. She smells of something floral and musky and her skin is softer than the silk that he used to tether her wrists. The swells of her breasts beckon to his hands.

"Do you really want it rough all the time?" he asks.

Reaching around, he palms her breast, holding and caressing instead of pinching and pulling. It's a beautiful thing and Edward's head falls against her shoulder. His dick throbs against her ass. He wraps his other hand around her waist and finds her soft and warm, adjectives much different than he would ever choose to describe Isabella's personality. He finds the point where she is hard for him and concentrates his attention there. Isabella cannot help but move against Edward and he stifles a groan.

They play, Edward with Bella's clitoris, Bella with her ass against Edward's dick until neither are fit for strategic power plays or witty banter. Until Edward is no longer plotting moves and Bella no longer cares. His fingers make their way inside her, warm and wet, while his other hand is now rough with her breasts. He holds his mouth at her throat and traps her body against his.

"You don't know what the hell you want," he murmurs sliding his lips along her neck to her ear. "You make me guess, but you don't know." He thrusts against her ass and Bella moans. "You want this." He thrusts again. "You want me." With another thrust, Bella's moan deepens and Edward feels her body shudder against his chest.

He grabs a handful of her hair and tugs her head backwards, aligning her ear with his lips.

"You want me inside of you. Right?" When Bella makes no move to respond he tugs a little harder. "Right?"

Bella nods and Edward grinds. He loosens his hold. "Thank you."

Putting on a condom in this position is difficult and slipping off boxer briefs isn't a graceful process, but neither Edward nor Isabella care about how it is done. Their bodies are desperate for intimate contact. Neither is certain whether the road is rough and the ride is bumpy or whether the force of their attraction brings their bodies together with exceptional impact, but they are more than pulled – it's as if their bodies are forced together.

Edward threads his fingers through Isabella's hair and pulls at her head. His other hand serves as a vice, anchoring her vagina, holding her soft sweet ass against him.

"I want to hear how much you want me. I don't care if you _want_ to tell me, either."

Edward loosens the silk around Isabella's head at the same time as he plunges his fingers deep within her warmth. Isabella gasps and tries to catch her breath.

"Do you want my cock in here?"

"What do you think?" she gasps.

"Tell me."

Isabella's only answer comes from the movement of her hips.

"Tell me you want me."

When he gets no answer he grabs hold of her hair again.

"Tell me, or this is where it ends."

With a bowed head and a deep breath, Isabella whispers the syllables Edward has been waiting for. He is vindicated and without another word he lifts, positions himself and lowers Isabella slowly, inch by inch, until she's settled on his cock. When they are finally flush with one another there is a mutual sigh and undeniable relief as if a puzzle has just been put right.

Slowly, languorously, Edward kisses and caresses as they begin to move together. Isabella cannot hold or touch, but Edward is nevertheless coming closer to the contact he has craved for too many years. He explores with hands and lips long out of practice, starved for touch. Isabella enjoys every gesture, every inch of him as he works to a slow, torturous rhythm. She presses against him, working for control, but Edward holds her in check with muscles that will surely ache later, letting the pressure build slowly… rubbing his nose across her upper back, kissing the other side of her neck, his hand drifting from breast to abdomen.

"You don't know what you want," he mumbles in response to her sighs of pleasure.

"I want -" Isabella begins, but her confession is lost in a gasp and a groan.

"What do you want?" he asks, picking up the pace.

"I want -"

"What?" he demands, pounding and insistent, grabbing her chin and turning her head so that he can almost look her in the eye. He thrusts harder and pins her body to his. "What do you want? Tell me."

Edward's breath is hot, his lips are cracked, his eyes are blinding in their intensity. Bella's body impaled, she is wracked with pleasure. She feels herself giving in, lost in sensation.

"What?" he asks with each thrust. He catches her eyes even as he loses his breath. "What?"

"I want you," she breathes as their lips lock. "Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck… You."

xXxXx

Silken cords are untied and wrists are rubbed. Bodies are warm and limbs are loose. Isabella rests her head on Edward's bare chest. The two gradually catch their breath and Isabella listens as Edward's heart slows to a more measured pace. She hasn't had the inclination to tell Jacob to circle back towards Edward's home. She knows that he is driving dutifully, waiting for her command. He does anything she asks in an attempt to bring her some solace. He's done his job. Isabella is satiated, her body at peace.

"You said something once," Bella begins. "About Jacob and me. You don't think I'm happy."

"Do you think so?" he replies.

"But what about you? Are you happy?"

Edward traces a path from Isabella's collarbone, down her gently sloping breast to the tip of her nipple. "Right now I'm satisfied."

"When was the last time you were happy, though?"

xXxXx

_"She's going to be fine, Mr. Cullen. Her nodes didn't look diseased. I can't say for certain of course. We sent them in for testing, but everything looked much better than I'd expected from her scans."_

xXxXx

"There was this one night. I was driving home and I took a detour down Observatory Drive. It was a really nice night and I rolled all the windows down and turned up the music really loud. Everything was good that night. Everything was going to be okay."

xXxXx

_"It was small enough that she might not even need chemo. Dr. Stephens has the expanders in place. There were no complications on that end of things."_

xXxXx

"It was… it was… Vampire Weekend's first album. The music was so happy, and everything was going to be okay."

xXxXx

_"Kids?"_

_"It's a risk, but not impossible. We can talk about that after she's healed."_

_"She's going to heal?"_

_"Of course."_

xXxXx

"I was a different person," Edward mumbles.

"No you weren't. You were still Edward Cullen back then."

"Hey, you said my name."

"I've said it before."

"You said 'Edward' this time."

Bella lifts her head from Edward's chest and looks into his gray-green eyes. They appear softer now, and more open even though his lids are low. "When was that?" she asks. "When you were happy?"

"About five years ago."

"It's been quite some time, hasn't it?" she asks, pushing hair from his forehead and cradling his cheek in her hand.

"When was the last time you were happy, Isabella Swan?"

"You have me beat, Edward."

He runs a hand through her messy hair – gently this time. "Isabella," he murmurs.

Bella's smile is soft and sweet before she lays her head back on Edward's chest.

"Don't think fucking and first names amount to intimacy, Mr. Cullen," she warns.

"Is that what you think I want, or is that what you want?" he asks.

"It's what humans seem to want."

"You know, the way you talk about people it's like you're not one of them. And then the things you do are -"

"About survival, Mr. Cullen. About getting to the top and staying there."

"What about intimacy?"

"Intimacy amounts to empty consolation." Isabella's voice is hollow and it makes Edward's chest hurt.

"Did you get what you wanted tonight?" he asks.

Isabella lifts herself off of Edward's chest. "You did well," she sighs and she reaches for a small compartment, producing an envelope and placing it across his abdomen.

"Did you get what you wanted this evening?" she asks.

Edward glances from the envelope to Isabella's face. "I did."

Edward and Bella consider one another in the darkness, each silently acknowledging that their desires have both shifted and are pleasantly sated just the same.

xXxXx

Edward does not take note of the time before he quietly unlocks the door of his home. Hastily dressed, his shirt is wrinkled, his tie hangs loose around his neck and his jacket is slung over his arm. He tries entering unobtrusively, but his mother jumps from the couch, alarmed at his arrival.

"Edward! I hadn't expected you back for a while." She looks her son over with a critical eye.

"It was finished early," he mumbles, avoiding eye contact and retreating to the kitchen.

"The opera?"

"My business."

Esme follows her son into the kitchen and turns on the light, illuminating his back. Edward ducks his head into the refrigerator, but is uncertain what he's searching for - a drink, an excuse.

"Is everything okay?" she asks.

"For now."

"Edward, talk to me. Please."

Edward sighs and facing facts, faces his mother. He's aware and annoyed that no matter what he produces from the refrigerator, his mother has the ability to see right through him. "Talk about what, Mom?" he asks.

Esme sizes up her son, letting the situation at hand sink in. "You're not yourself, dear."

"Do you really expect me to be myself, Mom? Am I supposed to watch Angela slowly die and be myself? Watch Dad lose his job? Watch Rose and Emmett struggle? Worry over every little thing and still be myself? If you're talking about being a sad sack that takes everything on and still shows up with a smile, no, I'm not being myself. But if you're talking about the part of me that gets things done, then you're in luck, because I'm making things happen for my family."

"Edward, honey, calm down. I just asked a question."

Edward leans on the kitchen counter. He's never raised his voice to his mother before. Bowed by overwhelming guilt, he cannot look at her for another second. "I'm sorry, Mom. I'm on edge."

Esme inches closer. "Was tonight awful, then?"

Edward hesitates. He works to keep his voice calm and even. "No, it wasn't. But it doesn't make things any better, you know? It might even make it all worse."

Esme carefully considers her words. There are things mothers keep from their children. They are held deep in their hearts, unearthed only when they have the potential to help or heal. "I understand wanting to run away."

Edward glances at his mother from the corner of his eye. "I wouldn't run away," he insists.

"Neither did I. You're a good man, Edward."

He shakes his head. "I don't think so."

"Trust me. I know you better than anyone in the world."

"I can't do this now, Mom."

"Maybe I understand."

"No. Maybe you need to go."

Esme walks gingerly across the kitchen tiles as if she were walking across cracking ice and goes on tiptoe to place a kiss on her son's cheek. Edward flinches and concentrates desperately on the pattern in the marbled countertop while his mother collects her belongings and makes her way to the front door.

"Alice is coming home soon. She planned on staying here to help out."

"I don't know if that's going to work."

"It could be good for you and a comfort for Angela."

"I don't know, Mom."

"Tell her yourself then, dear."

The front door quietly clicks and Edward allows himself to breathe.

xXxXx

The door to Angela's bedroom is closed and the dim glow from the nightlight gleams on the hardwood of the hallway floor. Edward leans his ear against the door and listens, but hears nothing within – not a cough or even the sound of labored breathing. He pulls the envelope with their itineraries from his pocket and considers his actions quietly. He would like to curl up with Angela and whisper in her ear that he's still doing his best to make everything alright. He'd like to tell her about the opera house and the first half of the performance. She'd always liked dabbling in the finer things in life. He'd like to confess and beg her forgiveness.

Instead he leaves the envelope on the table in the hall before turning off the lights and heading to bed.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for waiting. Thanks so much for reading. Thanks in advance for reviewing. Thanks to Obsmama for keeping me strong.**

**I heard someone say something the other day that rang so true for me. Artists are ripe for the picking. Someone gives them money and sure, they'll hand over their work, but if someone comes and tells them how much that piece of art speaks to them they'll hand it over for free. Let me know if it speaks to you, okay? **

**Until next time ~BDC**


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